Alecto's Ophelia

DYI Shrinky Dinks OR: I want to be that lady on tv.

I googled 'Shrinky dink disasters and this is what I got. I wasn't really looking for a disaster (although that would have been fun too) but I needed something that didn't look like perfect plastic against a white background. The truth, you know? I was looking for the truth. I think this works. I'm happier with genuine creativity than the 'you'll color in the lines or I'll lock you in a closet' kits.

Didn't you ever feel like you'd be locked in the closet for an epic fail out of a KIT?! Not by my mother or father or babysitter, by the box itself. OK, maybe you didn't but I never did like kits. Except paint by number kits. I liked those a lot. Also, please consider the ramifications, THOSE KITS USED OIL PAINT! And there was carpet involved. I still like to paint on the floor

Holy crap. One of the benefits of being raised like a wild animal in a state of benign neglect was we could do pretty much whatever we felt like doing in terms of wreaking havoc within and also without the house. I don't really think my brother did anything particularly egregious. It's entirely possible that he watched his big sister and kept a very long checklist of things not to do:

1. Maybe don't teach yourself to sew with Mom's sewing machine, fabric, gold handled scissors, and dress patterns (to be fair, she was the one to sit me down in front of the thing; I just don't think she expected a nine year old to go full throttle after a fifteen minute lesson)
2. Don't cut your own hair. Seriously. Don't do this
3. Don't cut anyone else's hair. Even if they ask. You'll be hated for at least a decade
4. Don't ride your bike barefoot in the woods. Everyone knows that's asking to lose a foot (I HAVE BOTH MY FEET, JACK!!!)
5. Don't fall out of trees or at least not on a regular basis or at least not on your head every time
6. Don't swallow pins (see #1). Don't even PRETEND to swallow pins
7. Don't touch the stove (See?! I told you it was still hot even though the coils weren't red anymore, but did you listen to me? No! Your entire seven year old hand stuck to the burner AND it was still my fault) (probably accurate)
8. Don't cook things without permission (see #7)
9. Don't bake things that just pop into your head after school unless you can leave literally no trace by 6 PM
10. Don't get into the leftover barn paint in the barn you're not supposed to be in. Ever.
11. Don't roll in fiberglass insulation in your brand new winter coat. Even if its pink and pretty, it will still make you bleed and ruin your coat

A small sampling, and all before I was twelve. It got more interesting at twelve, terrifying by the time I was fifteen, and you really don't want to know about seventeen, which is when I had a good talking to myself.

DYI. Before the acronym ever raised its terrifying head, I had that shit handled. 

Here is how a nine year old 'has that shit handled'. The nine year old is not particularly attached to the results. See #2 above. See fourth grade school picture. Not really. I'll just say its someone else anyway. 

The terrible truth: I never outgrew this shit. 

I got this handled.

Except for when Portnoy was 'helping', which is when I got nervous and decided I was helpless, never mind the horribly incompetent part. In retrospect, Portnoy wanted things to be perfect and I just didn't care as long as it worked. Measure twice, cut once, right? I'm far more likely to get it right by not measuring at all. Consider: The Zen of the Circular Saw. My father got one look at the chicken coop I made out of the top of a wooden swing set and went dead white. He was mortified that anyone with even an ounce of his genes would be able to build something quite so, um, cattywampus. 

But it works, Daddy! 

I can't look.

OK, don't look.

Don't worry, I won't.

I don't recall if it was that visit or the one prior that he confiscated my chainsaw. Either way, doesn't much matter, I'd developed a love affair with the Makita Circular Saw with the Blade that can cut through a QUARTER INCH PIPE!!! I regret having never found a quarter in pipe in need of cutting and probably using the Makita's predecessor to cut up livestock fencing may not have been the best idea of the year, but nothing died. 

I think the word I like lately is 'Intrepid'. Intrepid is a much better word than 'Reckless', or 'Batshit Crazy', which is reserved for my both of my Ratters, dead or alive. 

Mostly I am intrepid. Sometimes I have an irrational fear of things that really shouldn't be that difficult. Like ironing drapes. 

Do you remember the television commercials for the Shrinky Dink window insulation? I do. I remember watching that woman using a blow dryer to magically stick clear plastic to a window. I suppose in the photograph on the right she could conceivably be blowing direct heat on the window frame which could conceivably be stuck to the frame with double sided tape.

Conceivably. 

I'm going to back up a little bit; stick with me.

There's this thing called WEATHER PROOFING YOUR HOME. OK, I get that. If you feel a draft somewhere, hang some drapes. If that doesn't work, just don't go in that room until spring. If that doesn't work, put on more clothes. And a hat. And socks. And your boots. Maybe your coat too, if it's that bad. If it's REALLY bad, then do something about it, like get a piece of plywood and hammer it over the hole. I don't know, just brute force it. A leak, however, has to be dealt with ASAP and not by sending the kids to the roof with a golf umbrella every time it rains. 

This is an old house. Really old. It's an old house that has been maintained well enough to keep the bones strong and hopeful for another hundred years. It's a house that had a lovely tile floor and little bitty kitchen installed. It's a house where some jackass had carpeting installed over fifty percent of the perfectly beautiful 250 year old floors. NOT the owners.

As an aside, she put the carpeting in because she could do it at cost. That's wholesale and the installation was free. One or two of her brothers, I think. I didn't think much of that until I tried to pull up a corner to have a look at the condition of what was underneath. I had a terrible, terrible feeling they might have put sub flooring down ON TOP of the original floors.

I've pulled up carpeting from exactly three small bedrooms. That's not a lot of experience but I learned more each time I ripped, rolled, and pried out those pointy things. I know the best places to start peeling it up. I know what comes last. I know that no matter where I actually start (even if it's not the best place), I CAN get that mofo off the floor.

It took four tries between the stairs, the lower landing, the upper landing and the section where my room begins. That bad boy was installed with at least one pair of magic hands. I have never seen a wall to wall carpet installation that good. It's clean as shit at every single break. 

I'm still taking it up.

But the drafts! You might gasp. The drafts! The natural insulation! And the drafts! 

Yeah, I thought that too right up until I realized the heat from downstairs was required to rise and heat the upstairs. What the hell, woman? Did you sleep with a space heater?

Now, I like my bedroom to be in the 58 to 60F range so it took me a while to notice. Elizabeth likes her bedroom to be in the 75 to 80F range (not happening). It took me a while to notice just how bad it could get and until I stepped into Elizabeth's bedroom last January or February, I realized she was living in the freezer. 

Doesn't everybody have a walk-in freezer upstairs?

Elizabeth's little 8.9 by 12.4 room has two entire windows! (and a gigantic closet, but I'm not going to think about that right now)

These are really old windows. I mean, they aren't 250 year old windows but do they really have to be 250 years old to be drafty as shit? It's entirely possible that they could be. I did a little research. As this is the only truly old dwelling in which I've dwelled(?), I really didn't understand them at all. Not really.

They are double hung sash windows where the top half is a little smaller than the bottom. They use a cord and pulley system for opening and closing. My double hung sash windows were called cottage windows, by nature of the size differential. They are meant to have shutters and I'm sure, if you've ever been up close and personal with one of these things, you understand those shutters are about protection. From all sorts of things.

I have three of these things in my living space and one in the kitchen. I also have a bay window in the kitchen but that's just fine. I have two very old doors. One is in the kitchen and this is the one we use 99% of the time. There is a half inch gap between the door and the floor. I am grateful as hell for the storm door. The second door is actually the front door but it leads to a side porch and we don't spend much time on the porch. 

I have three windows in my room, one in the hallway, one in the bathroom, and two in Elizabeth's room. 

THAT'S ELEVEN GIANT LEAKS IN MY HOUSE!

The furnace was replaced last year and I still can't get the living space up to 65F which means the walk-in freezer is at 52F and my room at an almost reasonable 55. We have space heaters but you know, here's the thing (and maybe you do know):

These days almost all space heaters run at 1500 watts. 1500 watts pull 12.5 AMPs. Older breakers can handle a max of 15 AMPs before they blow. Most homes have a plethora of breakers compared to what the cottage has. New homes have 20 AMP breakers and I've even heard about 30, although I'm not sure what they're used for at the moment. For reference, a blow drier can blow a fuse. 

Thou Shalt Not Run the A/C upstairs if the A/C is Running Downstairs because that and that and those outlets pull from the same breaker. Thou Shalt Not Plug in and Turn on ANYTHING without doing the math from watts to amps and then checking every other outlet pulling from that same breaker. We're getting good at this. We keep a flashlight at the top of the basement stairs because when the kitchen goes out, so does the master bedroom. The kitchen in on top of the basement so you know that light's gone too.

I can live with all of this. We don't power much anyway but I do like a warmish room and I don't particularly care for tornadoes in the primary living space. Cold tornadoes. We are our very own weather zone in this 12 by 16 foot room; a 192 square foot weather generator. I am also quite certain that we're more than capable of creating a Super Cell (read about tornadoes) if the North wind is blowing through two front windows toward the escape hatch of the third window on the other side WHILE we are creating enough steam in the kitchen to set off the fire alarm at the bottom of the stairs.

Enough, already! It's wet in here too!

This is what I did before I was willing to play with plastic:

1. Pull down all the roller shades when the sun goes down
2. Roll up and packing tape (see? everybody needs it) towels and place them in front of both exterior doors
3. Hang quilts over all three living space windows (that was last winter) 
4. Install drapes on two of the six upstairs windows (don't really want to discuss that disaster, there's a reason for the cafe pole hardware leftover from ten tenants ago)
5. Install insulated blackout drapes downstairs this year (working on Elizabeth's room now)
6. Install a double sided door snake in the kitchen. Damn, that was effective!
7. Place a 1500 watt space heater downstairs on the only outlet that can handle it, put the space heater on a 25 foot orange extension cord and alternate warming each floor until bedtime

Not good enough. DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN.

I walked to Chappaqua Hardware on Sunday and had a talk with my friend. He handed me the big box, sighed, and said, of all the things I've sold you in the last year, even the 3/8th bit and those rings you decided were pulley material, this is the only sale that has me a little concerned.

Why.....?

Well....

SHANE! I'm cold!

OK, I'm afraid you're going to suffocate yourself?

How? This isn't going to air proof the entire cottage! If there was risk of suffocation they wouldn't even exist.

Oh, I know.

Then what?

I can't quite see it yet but there's something in my gut telling me you're going to end up wrapped in it like a spider's dinner.

What?!

Yeah. I see it now. You're going to get frustrated with the double sided tape because you can't get the paper off and you're going to get the plastic halfway on the window and start blow drying it anyway and then you're going to fall off the chair you're standing on even though I sold you a perfectly good step stool, and with the blow dryer still in your hand you're going to seal yourself right up. Air tight.

You think?

Yes, I think.

Can I have it anyway?

Call me in two days and tell me you're still alive.

OK.

So I learned some things. I've covered the five most egregious leakers in the cottage, the two in Elizabeth's room and the three in the 192 square foot tornado zone. 

Here is what I can share with you today:

1. Read the instructions. All. Of. Them.
2. Do this in full daylight
3. If you really have to do it at night, do it in a room FULL OF LIGHT THAT CAN BE DIRECTED AT THE WINDOW
4. When the instructions instruct you to WASH AND DRY ALL THE SURFACES the tape will touch, that is not a guideline. It is not a suggestion. THAT IS REQUIRED
5. If you have to resort to packing tape to make the plastic stick to the windowsill, tear it down and start over again.
6. If the plastic is totally full of folds and wrinkles no matter how much tape you used, tear it down and start over. Your daughter will think she has mice in her room when the wind gets in and makes that thing rattle
7. If you get the sticky tape in your hair, thusly covering the sticky tape in hair, do not use those inches of sticky tape. Throw them out or do something crafty later
8. When choosing where to place the tape, consider whether or not you're actually covering the drafts. 
9. When you have successfully taped the window in the correct places, tear off the paper and do something else for ten minutes. The ten minute waiting period is not a guideline or suggestion
10. When you begin to apply the plastic, get on a STEP STOOL NOT THE CHAIR and begin from the top. Don't do anything until you have that top in place and have run your fingers over the tape once or twice
11. When you apply the sides of the plastic to the windows, do this a little bit at a time, alternating sides as you go. Think about the way we screw or bolt something in place. We never put the hardware in tight as can be without balancing the others or it flat out won't fit and you'll just have the one screw. Same rule of the universe applies to plastic on sticky tape
12. When it is time to blow dry your plastic to the tape, keep in mind that you are bonding the tape to the wood (or whatever) as well as the plastic. You don't need to put the blow dryer half an inch from the wood to get it to stick
13. When you've been heating the plastic from an inch away and you smell smoke, turn the thing off and figure out what you've just lit on fire
14. Do not blow dry the plastic across the window just because you think that's what you saw the lady do on television once. Just don't
15. I should have put this first, in case you don't read all the instructions before you begin: Measure at least once, cut once. OR, make sure the plastic is going to be long enough to reach the sill or you're going to have to get out your duct tape
16. Also, should have gone first: Before you buy, do your math. Before you buy, measure your windows. The package on the left is very clear. It contains four 62 x 42 inch panels. It has 72 feet of double-sided tape. The box cost somewhere between $7  and $8. The box on the right is one solid sheet, which appeals to me because my windows are not all the same size and some of them are downright odd. However, even though the box tells us that the plastic inside will cover five windows, it is sort of lying. It's a soft lie because it doesn't come right out and tell you that it can only make 4.66 62 x 42 inch panels. It has 84 feet of tape. I sure do hope that's true. Here's the kicker, the box on the right cost $19.99

To be fair, Shane sold me the box for $19.99 and to be fair, that was the most economical price in the store and to be fair, supporting your local merchant is likely to cost a shit ton more than supporting the Home Depot back in your home state. Just pay attention and make an informed choice. 

Shane also called here yesterday to make sure I was still breathing.

I haven't decided if that's a good witch or a bad witch...

But nobody's going to call me from Home Depot.

This is one of the places where Shane and I like to sit on the floor and think about all the things we could make or even just do. If we ever get around to drilling holes in small rocks, you'll be the first to know (this was NOT my idea). 

The Truth About

The truth about white cake: It's overrated 

The truth about perfect pie crust: Again, overrated

The truth about cookbooks: No one's reading them anymore; although some of them look good on the coffee table 

The truth about homemade bread: Pointless. You will be the only one eating it for a multitude of reasons, none of which are good 

The truth about bread machines, especially the really expensive bread machines: They produce square rocks. Not a good use of money or kitchen space no matter how much of either you have

The truth about food blogs: Damn useful things. 

The truth about an electric power drill and a good bit set: EVERYBODY, with one or two exceptions, needs one. It should be kept in the kitchen pantry (mine actually lives in the kitchen under the island for easy access) along with 25, 50, and 100 foot screamin' orange extension cords, the eleven hammers you've undoubtably collected, sixteen tape measures, 2 wire stripers at a minimum (5 is optimal), multiple ziplock bags full of everything the hardware store sells in the screw, nail, and washer section, and as much packing tape as you can reasonably store. Also, multiple sticky things, not just duct tape

The truth about changing a tire: It should be included in your driving test. This test begins with you locating your spare tire 

The truth about coffee: it's a life source, actually

The truth about salted butter: just get over it and use less salt than you would otherwise

The truth about egg whites: Whipping them into a perfect froth is a serious art form; however, totally useless,  see truth #1

The truth about funerals: Everyone should have access to appropriate funeral dress

The truth about unemployment: You write a 5,000+ word blog post for your daughter about The White Cake and how to wrangle the damn thing and you un-post it immediately because she meh's it without looking. 

This post is much better. Later I'll republish The Truth About White Cake with 1500 words or less and most of the pictures. Because if you need more than 1500 words, please pick up a 1964 edition of The Joy of Cooking and learn your kitchen chemistry. 

Time to fly.

The Truth About White Cake - Revised

Forward: This is a revision of the original 6,227 word post. If you need a 6,227 word tutorial, this is not the post for you. You can pull up an old edition of the Joy of Cooking, refer back to the original retitled publication: White Cake Revised Or: Divorcing the Box Mix, or just have at it. Don't get any fat substance in your egg whites. That's all I've got to say about that. 

Preface

The truth about white cake is it's really a soufflé with a heavy base pretending to be a cake. It's fucking with you; no joke. I don't have much trouble with sweet or savory soufflés, but I do struggle with lying, cheating, wannabe cakes. grrrrr... I will get the better of these things. Eventually.  

In the interest of full disclosure, this was originally a tutorial for Lucia, photographed nearly step by step because it has foiled her and she does not own a copy of The Joy of Cooking. I'm looking for an edition that still has a possum recipe and then I'll know I've got the goods. I will give it to Lucia. She may or may not be polite about it but she'll wait to shove it in the back of the book closet until I'm not looking. At least I'll know The Food Bible is in her hands. 

The Joy of Cooking was probably the very best tutorial published on US soil until great grandson, John Becker, literally destroyed it. Perhaps the recipes were lacking today's expectation of creativity and pizazz; but consider the time in which they were published. When Sheila Lukins and Julee Rosso published the first edition of The Silver Palate in 1982, and their work over the next fifteen years was enough to get them the James Beard Award for Cookbook Hall of Fame, a bottle of  Balsamic vinegar, should you actually find one, cost an average of $82 for an 8 ounce bottle. They, and many other newly published chefs broke the ground like an earthquake, changing our idea of food and the possibility that we too, could miraculously transform our own kitchens. As long as we could identify, locate, and afford ingredients and implements of destruction completely foreign to our kitchens and supermarkets. Thus, William Sonoma was born. 

Erg. 

The instructions for White Cake have been edited with the assumption that you understand why ingredients should be at room temperature when baking, why we fold instead of stir or beat the egg whites into the a this sort of cake (ha!), the reason we sift, and a whole bunch of other things. I left a lot of the photographs in place, but not forty! I think you know how to properly flour a cake pan.

The original recipe and instructions came from Sugar Spun Run which is written and published by Sam, who did a fine job but she still had to make some assumptions. Most cookbooks have to make a lot of assumptions. A recipe from the interwebs... gah! Not the best way to learn but better than nothing at all. I'm going to make a couple of assumptions.

PART One ~ The Cake

 

Mise En Place - (MEEZ ahn plahs) - Scene One

Mise En Place means 'putting in place'. It is a culinary term which means - Everything in its Place: all your prep, ingredients, implements of destruction, oven mitts, parchment paper blah blah blah. Why? Because more times than you can imagine, timing matters. Also, this is a good time to find out you're missing something crucial. I want to make a note about one item in scene below. There is a mesh strainer nested in the middle blue bowl. I use it for its original use and four or five other things.

One of the other things I use it for is sifting flour.

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW. We all hate to sift flour but sometimes its just got to be done. It has to be done when the flour called for the recipe must be absolute and also, Reasons. 

The Middle Rack

The Middle Rack means the Middle Rack. Stop fucking with this as if you think baking something else at the same time is actually viable. It is not.  

DON'T BREAK THE HEAT. This means just what it sounds like. Open that oven door and Presto! Your fluffy thing is a brick. At one point, Sam does suggest turning the cakes halfway through the baking cycle but she also instructs, First - that we not break the heat. Go with DON'T BREAK THE HEAT. Open, shut, wait, open, test, and hopefully done. 

Moving right along

This is Sam's ingredient list, slightly modified. EVERYTHING is at room temperature. The 'room temperature butter got that way by sitting on the kitchen counter, NOT via the microwave. Come on, you know that.

Cake Ingredients:

• 6 Tablespoons unsalted butter 
• 2/3 cup vegetable oil
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 scant teaspoon vanilla
• 2 and 2/3 cups + 2 Tablespoons all-purpose flour - 345g - SIFTED.
• 1 Tablespoon baking powder 
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup milk 
• 6 large egg whites 

Implements of Destruction:

• 3 nested mixing bowls and one small, white bowl 
• A standing mixer. Or use your hand mixer and make sure your beaters are squeaky clean between the Mise En Place Scenes
• A hand mixer
• 2 8 or 9 inch cake pans 
• Parchment paper 
• Full set of measuring cups
• Full set of measuring spoons
• Rubber or silicon spatula 
• Sifter of some sort
• Cooling racks  

This thing About Vanilla: 

I did not know this. The difference between White Cake and Vanilla Cake is that Vanilla Cake has vanilla in it and therefore tastes different and is no longer quite white. Sam asks for 1 Tablespoon (holy crap) of CLEAR Vanilla. Clear vanilla avoids being brown by not putting any real vanilla in the suspension. Who knew? Yellow Cake is another animal entirely, just to be clear.

Mise En Place - Scene One - The Dry Things. 

The flour on the left has been sifted. I put exactly 2 and 2/3 leveled cups + 2 leveled tablespoons into a bowl; then I sifted. I did this to illustrate the difference between sifted and unsifted measurements. To the right of the blue bowl is a measuring cup about half full of the leftover sifted flour. Just sayin'  

1. Preheat your oven to 350F. Make sure the rack is as dead center as possible before the oven is hot
2. Place 2 and 2/3 cups + 2 Tablespoons of flour sifted flour into a medium bowl
3. Add 1 Tablespoon of Baking Powder  
4. Sift the dry ingredients together or stir well enough to be sure all things are in the right place.
5. Prep your cake pans. Yes. Now, right now. Your oven should already be at 350F

Put your cake pans side by side, right side up, on a piece of parchment paper big enough for two without crowding.

With a pen, trace around the bottoms of the pans.

This is what you should have after the tracing:

Now cut them out. I failed circle cutting in first grade and I have to be very careful. 

Don't be stingy with the butter. I mean it. Do Not Be Stingy. In your head, you will hear me say 'I told you so' when your cakes break in half on exit. 

And this is my buttered cake pan. See? Not stingy:

Place the parchment circles onto the buttered bottom of the pans. Please don't butter the top.

Flour up your pans with the leftover sifted flour (bonus!) and give them a good Smack! on the bottom (over the sink, please) when you're done smacking the sides. 

Isn't that absolutely beauteous?

Mise En Place - Scene Two - The Wet Things

Leaving the eggs behind, take dry and wet ingredients AND the rubber spatula to your standing mixer. Alternatively, stay in your kitchen if the mixer is there. OR, use your hand mixer. My standing mixer lives just around the corner in the Harry Potter Room. 

From the top left, clockwise:

• 2 and 2/3 + 2 Tablespoons sifted flour which has been thoroughly mixed with 1 teaspoon of salt and 1 tablespoon of Baking Powder
• 2 cups sugar
• 6 Tablespoons butter  
• 2/3 cup of vegetable oil. Olives are not vegetables. So no Olive Oil.

Ready? Go! 

1. Cream the softened butter on medium speed 
2. Alternating, add the sugar and the oil to the butter. 
3. Scrape the sides a lot more than you think you have to
4. Don't let the standing mixer eat the spatula
5. With the mixer on medium speed, add one quarter of the flour mixture to the bow
6. When the flour is almost mixed, add one quarter of the milk
7. The first and last addition should be dry (four, milk, flour, milk, flour... you get it)

SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE!!!

 

Isn't that beautiful?

Take the bowl off the Mixing stand and go back to Scene One and add the 1 scant teaspoon of vanilla. Gently, please.  

Mise En Place - Scene Three - The High Peaks

See the big blue bowl on the left? If that bowl has so much as an infinitesimal speck of fat of any sort, your egg whites will be soup. If you think there has been a mishap with either the beaters and or the bowl, stop, run the water to hot hot hot and wash. 

Avoiding the fat applies to the egg white's worst enemy: The Deadly Yolk.

In order to avoid having to throw out an entire batch of egg whites, I'm going to break one egg at a time into a white bowl and if the yolk has behaved, I dump the white into the mixing bowl.

I have never been able to explain why I separate eggs the way I do. I will show you what I do and you will do whatever works best for you. Also, eggs need to not be past their expiration date. Old eggs present yolks that are just dying to break. Old eggs present whites that believe they are water.

I had to photograph this with my right hand so you're really only seeing the end of the process but...

With my egg over the white bowl, I very carefully knock the egg on edge of the bowl (or whatever works) just enough to cause a crack big enough to open the shell with some sort of control. I don't want to shatter the egg. I just want to set it free.

Turn the egg upright and pry it apart gently. Tilt it forward to let the white out while using the top of the shell to hold back the yolk.

If you look carefully, you'll notice the top and bottom of the shell are still slightly connected by the inner membrane and the white goes over board so fast all I have to do is catch that yolk and pull it back. It's ok to give up some of the white; you'd have one hell of a time separating it from the yolk anyway. 

Here is one reason we handle one egg at a time: OOPS@!!!!! The entire egg slipped right out of my paws.

Note: The yellow and most of the white are standing up. This means my egg did not just come from the hen house but it's doing OK.

So, if the yoke is broken, dump, clean, and start again. 

Got a whole yolk? It can probably saved if it's not too old. 

Gently insert a soup spoon under the yolk. Hold it against the side of the bowl for just a few seconds to let whatever white wants to slide back into the bowl and then dump it unceremoniously into the yolk bowl.  And move on.

I would have liked slightly stiffer peaks but you can over-whip your whites and it isn't quite as entertaining as when you over-whip cream and get butter. When you over-whip whites they collapse. They're starting to pull away from the side of the bowl at the left, which is why I stopped. Also, look at the beater. 

If you get everything else wrong but you're still here with whipped whites, for the love of Dog, don't foul this up. If you have ever a soufflé come out of the oven successfully, you will understand. 

 

Romancing the Egg Whites

If this fails, dump the wretched batch in the trash and head to your local pub

 

For the same reason we DO NOT BREAK THE HEAT, we DO NOT BREAK THE AIR unless you want a brick. 

Transfer and FOLD in about one third of the egg whites at a time. The rubber spatula is most likely the best tool for this. 

Fold the two opposing compounds as if one of them might explode if you move too fast. Slide the rubber spatula down the inside of the bowl. Turning the spatula, scoop the fat compound very carefully over the air compound. You will hear crackling. That's the sound of the air breaking that can't be avoided. There is a very small margin of error in this process. When you are finished, the mix should be in the 'almost finished' state. 

When you scoop/pour the mix into the cake pans, use the spatula, getting up under the mix from the bottom of the bowl. You get one shot at this: defusing a bomb, right?     

The Cake Baby

When your Cake Baby is in the oven, here are the modified house rules:

1. No Creature will speak or mew or bark or wheekie wheekie wheekie above a whisper 
2. You will not break the heat unless you see flames 
3. The kitchen will be protected from draft at all times
4. The doorbell WILL NOT ring. Do you know what's worse than a cranky, colicky, tired, hungry, wet and poopie baby? The one that wakes up because of the asshole who touched the doorbell. 

Your cakes are cranky, colicky, tired, hungry, wet and poopie babies. Tread with care

Because I have 9 inch pans, these were baked at 350 F for 30 minutes. If you have 8 inch pans, check for doneness at 35 minutes. Doneness is checked with a toothpick. Not a knife, a toothpick. I didn't really want them to be pulling away from the sides like that. Probably I should have pulled them two minutes earlier. My cranky babies are going to lose a little loft but at least I didn't break the heat. 

Rest your cakes in their pans on a wire rack. I don't know where my wire racks have wandered off so I got creative. Now is usually a good time to run a knife around the sides to loosen the cake. I waited because mine were already pulling away.

This is where I swore a blue streak and started thinking about the pub. This house, this lovely, lovely cottage is BEYOND DRAFTY in the winter. The far cake is already falling on one side. I grabbed the freaking big ass, thick as hell throw pillow and placed it between the cakes and the window. And those are the modern windows. Then I prayed.

While waiting, find two plates on which to invert my cakes. This is when I actually did cry. I have very small dinner plates. The reason this is sitting next to my great great grandmother's china is to make two points.

1. For real, guys, my plates are too freaking small to be cake plates
2. Once upon a time in America, we did not need to super size it. 

There is almost always a solution (except for when you break the heat, put yolks in the whites, or some one or thing breaks one of the cake baby rules).

Cutting boards. I picked the two least offensive looking plastic boards and covered them with parchment paper. Why? Because these things are going to be sticky as shit when I flip them back over. Also, clear packing tape should be a staple in every kitchen. Just say'n.

Turn your cakes upside down, holding your hand, fingers and thumb spread as wide open as possible (don't press) against the top of the cake to keep it from breaking in half or falling out. Gently slip the cake baby onto the final cooling location. If it isn't sliding right out, turn it right side up and loosen the edges with  a knife again. The parchment on the bottom of the pans is meant to release the cake babies right out of the pan, unless you got stingy with the butter in which case, go to the pub and think about what you've done.

I do not subscribe to the school of - put the plate on top of the cake pan and flip it over. Too much can go terribly wrong. Think of it as birthing a baby. A cranky cake baby.

Peel the parchment paper off the bottom. If you don't do it now you may be eating it later. It should come right up.

Your cake cools to room temperature before you touch it again. I wait three hours. For real. 

PART TWO ~ The Buttercream

You didn't think we were going to leave this unfrosted, did you? Also, since PART TWO exists, we can safely assume a less than tragic cake result. 

Mise En Place... *yes, that is a stemless wine glass. It works pretty well. 

The idea of buttercream freaks me out a bit; it always has. But then I think about what's in mass produced product and I want to eat enough dirt to clear my palate permanently. OK, so you and your nearest and dearest are going to consume half a pound of butter. 

Let that sink in.

Into the creamed butter will go:

• 3 Cups, more or less, of powdered sugar
• 3 Tablespoons, more or less, of cream (or whole milk if you're desperate)
• Maybe some salt
• 1 Teaspoon of vanilla

This is hard to screw up. If it's too dry, add more cream. If it's runny, add more confectioners flour. 

So here we go, if you got two cakes out of the oven without a tragedy, then you already know the rest.

Beat the ROOM TEMPERATURE 2 sticks of butter until creamed. 

Alternately add the confectioners sugar and the milk, starting and ending with the sugar and then adding the vanilla. 

I like to have the cream as close at hand as possible without me elbowing it off the counter. That's why it goes all the way at the back of the counter where I can't reach it.

I prefer a very stiff frosting. If you choose a stiff frosting, you'll need to be competent in the action of frosting a cake. I can't say I am. I can say I have a general idea and know a trick or two but I wouldn't show up in public with it, no matter how tasty. If the final product looks like a kindergartner took over, you'll know I had a few unfortunate moments. 

I don't have a cake plate, remember? I could just leave it on one of the parchment wrapped boards but I don't have to because I have a Stegosaurus Stand. It needed washing.

I am not a fan of cutting slicing the top of the cake to make a flat surface. There are other ways. 

I chose the most stable of the two cakes - the one that did not catch a blast of arctic wind causing it to deflate a bit on one side. I placed the cake upside down on the Stego-Stand. Yay! Perfectly flat top. 

I used a very hot, wet knife to smooth out the top and sides. I had to go back to the sides three or four times because I kept scraping down to the bone. No light touch on this woman. 

It's a bit lopsided, it's not as big as I'd like, but it is most assuredly a White Cake. 

Next time I'm leaving the vanilla out entirely. I want whiter than white, dammit!

And yes, it does taste different than most cakes. It has no yolks. Yolks change everything. 

 

White Cake Revised: Divorcing the Box Mix

The Forward: An explanation of sort(s): This 6,227 word instructional guide with approximately forty instructional photographs is meant for the novice baker and was originally titled The Truth about White Cake. It was taken down within six hours of publication and has been back dated to the original publication date with a different title. This means if you have the old link in a reader, you'll land at an entirely different sort of post. Sorry about that.

Why 6,226 words? Because I'm trying to cover everything I know about the kitchen chemistry required to pull this off. Where and how did  I come by this information? It was jumpstarted by the 1964 edition of The Joy of Cooking, followed by approximately 45 years of trial and error involving close to forty additional cookbooks acquired during that period. The explosion of the Food Blog didn't hurt either. The explosion of mostly not kitchen tested by anyone other than the writer has no doubt contributed to the demise of the home baker and chef. 

I've put my 10,000 hours in. Yes, I really did start at nine, and of the three editions I've owned (plus the first edition of the revised, yet mangled forever Joy of Cooking), I've only kept the first. It's pages are yellowed with age and encrusted with kitchen spatter. The binding is going and at least sixty pages are held in place with tape. If I could keep only one cookbook (and I've got some serious winners on my shelf), that would be it. If I had anyone to whom it could be passed, I would do so. Eventually. 

I've put my 10,000 hours in but that hasn't come anywhere near making me a master baker. I still reference the about sections in that original book. This publication IS the about section of at least sixty percent of what the novice baker needs to know. Maybe more. 

That's why 6,227 words (including the forward).

Preface

The truth about white cake is that it's only pretending to be a cake. It's fucking with you; no joke.

White Cake is soufflé. I make savory and sweet soufflés and as long as I'm paying attention, I'm happy with them. Also, I can handle White Cake, but barely. For me, it is more difficult than any dessert soufflé even thought it's the same process and almost the same chemistry. One major difference is the White Cake base is generally much heavier with a pretty extreme fat to any other ingredient ratio.

In the interest of full disclosure, this is a tutorial for Lucia, photographed nearly step by step because it has foiled her and she does not own a copy of The Joy of Cooking. I'm looking for an edition that still has a possum recipe and then I'll know I've got the goods. I will give it to Lucia. She may or may not be polite about it but she'll wait to shove it in the back of the book closet until I'm not looking. At least I'll know The Food Bible is in her hands. 

The Joy of Cooking was probably the very best tutorial published on US soil until great grandson, John Becker, literally destroyed it. Perhaps the recipes were lacking today's expectation of creativity and pizazz; but consider the time in which they were published. When Sheila Lukins and Julee Rosso published the first edition of The Silver Palate in 1982, and their work over the next fifteen years was enough to get them the James Beard Award for Cookbook Hall of Fame, a bottle of  Balsamic vinegar, should you actually find one, cost an average of $82 for an 8 ounce bottle. They, and many of the other newly published chefs broke the ground like an earthquake, changing our idea of food and the possibility that we too, could miraculously transform our own kitchens. As long as we could identify, locate, and afford ingredients and implements of destruction completely foreign to our kitchens and supermarkets. Thus, William Sonoma was born. 

Erg. 

If the required kitchen chemistry is embedded in your bones, hands, and skin you do not need a tutorial. This knowledge often comes at your Momma's hip, with your Gramma, Nana, or Meemaw, and maybe an Aunt or two. If you didn't collect it at the hip, you got it some other way and probably that way was a lot harder and took a boatload more  years. Note: If you're still referring to anyone as, 'Ma!', I curse you with an extra epic failure. 

The Joy of Cooking had an 'About' section at the beginning of every chapter or required chapter section. 'About Pancakes', 'About Custards', 'About Canned Meat'... It took me quite a few failures to stop what I was doing and sullenly read the About pages. It took me a couple years to understand why the hell I really needed things at room temperature. Melted butter is not a substitute for butter at room temperature. Either wait or suck it up and bash away at the hard butter. Melted butter becomes a different sort of compound entirely. 

The instructions for White Cake, start to finish are photographed and explained, step by step. There are something like 40 photographs so take heart. If nothing else, you'll learn a lot and you can try again. If you aren't failing at things, you're not reaching. Reach.  

If you just want the recipe, it is from Sugar Spun Run which is written and published by Sam. Sam actually does explain herself, with photographs, but she still has to make some assumptions. Most cookbooks have to make a lot of assumptions. A recipe from the interwebs... gah! Not the best way to learn but better than nothing at all. I will do my best to make no assumptions.

PART One ~ The Cake

 

Mise En Place - (MEEZ ahn plahs) - Scene One

Mise En Place means 'putting in place'. It is a culinary term which means - Everything in its Place: all your prep, ingredients, implements of destruction, oven mitts, parchment paper blah blah blah. Mise En Place for Scene One is in the photograph below. Why? Because more times than you can imagine, timing matters. Or, timing matters a shitload more than you think. Also, this is a good time to find out you're missing something crucial. I want to make a note about one item in this scene. You might not have even seen it or you might have thought it was for something else. There is a mesh strainer nested in the middle blue bowl. I use it for a lot of things, some might look ridiculous. I use it to drain pasta, especially little pastas like Orzo, I use as a ricer (it's a pain in the ass so only when I absolutely must), I use it for the final step in turkey or chicken gravy that is so smooth and silky you'd swear it came out of a can except it's a knock your socks off gravy. I'm damn proud of that accomplishment. 

The other thing I use it for is sifting flour.

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW. We all hate to sift flour and if I had a real flour sifter it might even be less painful. However, I have very limited space in my kitchen. To live here you must have at least four different uses (you think I'm kidding, ask a New Yorker who cooks or bakes). 

I don't always sift. You know when I sift? I sift when I'm instructed to sift or when a recipe reads: 2 and 2/3 and 2 Tablespoons flour and then notes that its 345g in case you just want to weigh it. Ah. Alrighty then. My scale bit the dust so sift we will. You'll see why in a bit.

The Middle Rack

The Middle Rack is Not. A. Joke. The middle rack means the middle rack; no higher, no lower. Adjust your racks and preheat your oven between the Mise En Place and step 1. You will never cook 'something else' in the same oven at the same time except maybe a pot roast. A pot roast will not notice anything else in the oven.  

In addition to the middle rack (unless you're instructed otherwise), DON'T BREAK THE HEAT. This means just what it sounds like. Open that oven door and Presto! Your fluffy thing is a brick. At one point, Sam does suggest turning the cakes halfway through the baking cycle but she also instructs, First - that we not break the heat. Go with DON'T BREAK THE HEAT. 

The Actual List of Stuff You Need

I am going to notate some of Sam's list.

• 6 Tablespoons unsalted* butter AT ROOM TEMPERATURE - not a joke 
• 2/3 cup vegetable oil
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 scant (that means not quite to the top) teaspoon REAL FREAKING VANILLA, PEOPLE - this is not what Sam uses
• 2 and 2/3 cups + 2 Tablespoons all-purpose flour - 345g
• 1 Tablespoon baking powder 
• 1 teaspoon salt**
• 1 cup milk AT ROOM TEMPERATURE - not a joke
• 6 large egg whites at room temperature - you believe me now, right?

Implements of Destruction:

• An oven
• 3 mixing bowls of any color and at least one white bowl. Trust me.
• A standing mixer. If you don't have one, don't panic, use your hand mixer. You'll have to make sure those beaters are squeaky clean later. 
• A hand mixer
• 2 8 or 9 inch cake pans - whatever you got - we can work it out
• Parchment paper. Stop right there. Don't have any? Go acquire it. 
• Full set of measuring cups
• Full set of measuring spoons
• Rubber or silicon spatula - this is incredibly helpful. If you don't have one, borrow it from your neighbor and then talk to Santa.
• Sifter of some sort
• Wire cooling racks - anything to get the cake pans off the table or counter to keep the airflow moving during the first 15 out of the oven minutes 

This isn't a particularly complicated list but there's a ton of chemistry happening. Don't be scared. You can do it over and over again until you get it right and then develop a horrible case of Kitchen PTSD when you tackle The Angel Food Cake. How 'bout learn to deal with Fondant instead? Don't worry, you don't have to eat it.

* and **: I only have salted butter today. I don't want to purchase more butter when, for some unholy reason, I have two pounds leftover from Thanksgiving. So this is OK. If you use salted butter in a recipe that calls for unsalted, you lose control over the quantity of salt in your recipe. Don't panic. I'm using 6 Tablespoons of butter, which is 3/4 of a stick, and 1 teaspoon of salt is asked for. I compromise and turn the teaspoon into a healthy pinch. 

About Vanilla: 

The difference between White Cake and Vanilla Cake is that Vanilla Cake has vanilla in it and therefore tastes different and is no longer quite white. Sam asks for 1 Tablespoon (holy crap) of CLEAR Vanilla. Yellow Cake is another animal entirely, just to be clear.

The color of vanilla comes from its source is not a chemical addition. You can't make clear vanilla with anything that came from a vanilla bean. The vanilla bean IS going to turn the suspension liquid brown. However, I went all over looking for clear vanilla and then came home to trusty old google. Ahhhhh.... it is not vanilla. It is pretend vanilla essence suspended in a clear fluid. I didn't want my White Cake to turn brown or yellow but I did want a little vanilla. That's why I use a scant teaspoon and I do mean scant.

So? Got your Mise En Place Scene 1? We're going to mix the dry ingredients and then go around the corner to Mise En Place Scene 2. But first, the flour.

The flour on the left has been sifted. I put exactly 2 2/3 + 2 Tablespoons into a bowl. When measuring flour, it is best to be as accurate as possible. Hold the measuring cup over the flour container, use something else to fill until it over flows, and then use an upside down knife of any sort and level it; then feed it through the strainer. If you are using a mesh strainer, you can shake it side to side until you get sick of that and then you can take a big metal spoon and scrape and push and scrape and push. When all the flour is sifted, you measure it again exactly the same as the first (but not over the flour container). Now you have exactly 2 2/3 + 2 Tablespoons of flour in a bowl which is exactly what you need. Look to the right. That's a little more than half a cup. Left Over. 

1. Preheat your oven to 350F. Make sure a rack is as dead center as possible before the oven is hot
2. Put 2 and 2/3 + 2 Tablespoons of prepared flour into a medium bowl
3. Add either 1 teaspoon or a pinch of salt, depending on your butter (see above)
4. Add 1 Tablespoon of Baking Powder  
5. Using whatever means necessary (I like a big metal spoon) stir the dry ingredients around until everything is evenly distributed. Why? Because all of the pieces parts must be in the right place at the right time.

Before we go to Mise En Place Scene Two, assuming you turned your oven on to 350 before we started (if not, do that now), it's time to prep your cake pans. Yes. Now. Right now.

Put your cake pans side by side, right side up, on a piece of parchment big enough for two without crowding.

With a pen, trace around the bottoms of the pans.

Try not to use a sharpie. Lucia, stop laughing. I did not die of it. 

This is what you should have after the tracing:

Now cut them out. Carefully. I failed circle cutting in first grade and I have to be very careful. 

Don't be stingy with the butter, but don't go overboard either or you'll have huge clumps stuck to everything. You can use some of the leftover two Tablespoons you cut off the stick to make the 6 Tablespoons you'll need later. This is how I start with approximately 1 teaspoon for each pan:

And this is how I end (the buttah part):

Make sure there the entire inside surface of your pan, bottom and sides, are well coated. 

Place the parchment circles onto the buttered bottom of the pans:

Take the leftover sifted flour (bonus!) and flour the inside of your pans. Turn the pans perpendicular to the sink but slightly tilted up. Just a little.

Now spank that bad boy. Smack it on the sides while rotating the pan. Shake it back and forth. When you have made it all the way around, the sides of the pan, and some of the parchment (you don't really care all that much about flour on or off the parchment) will be properly coated in flour.

Last thing: Turn the pans over so that they are horizontal to the sink, bottom side up. Give the bottom of the pans one solid whack and turn them over. This is what you're looking for.

Mise En Place - Scene Two

Leaving the eggs behind, take dry and wet ingredients AND the rubber spatula to your standing mixer. My standing mixer lives just around the corner in the Harry Potter Room. 

From the top left, clockwise:

• 2 and 2/3 + 2 Tablespoons sifted flour which has been thoroughly mixed with the appropriate amount of salt and 1 Tablespoon of Baking Powder
• 2 cups of sugar
• 6 Tablespoons (3/4 of a stick) butter at room temperature, cut into four chunks. 
• 2/3 cup of vegetable oil. Olives are not vegetables. So no Olive Oil.

Ready? Go!: 

1. Cream the softened butter on medium speed 
2. Alternating, add the sugar and the oil to the butter. 

You will need to scrape the sides A LOT. I mean A LOT. This is important because if you don't, all that stuff stuck to the sides in various states of mixed will not be in place or condition to use. I think I stopped on average four or five times during the butter, sugar, oil process and maybe 7 or 8 during the flour and milk process.

If you look carefully at the photograph below, you can see how the butter and vegetable oil have not quite mixed, or emulsified into the sugar (or each other). You can also see all the sugar on the sides of the bowl that need to be scraped back to the fat mixture.

This next part is a bit tricky. You don't want to over mix, you want to get 95% of the way there. When mixing dry and wet ingredients into a fat and sugar (and sometimes egg) base, you need to alternate between the dry and the wet. Start and end with dry. I usually break it into 3 parts, sometimes 4.

1. With the mixer on medium, add a third or a quarter of the flour mixture to the fat sugar base
2. When the flour is almost mixed, add the same ratio of milk
3. Rinse and repeat...
4. The last ingredient should be the last of the flour
5. And with your spatula, you will scrape scrape scrape

Isn't that beautiful?

Take the bowl off the Mixing stand and go back to Scene One. Sprinkle one scant teaspoon of vanilla over the yummy cake base, and gently mix. Why? Why not in the standing mixer? Because Science.  If you beat real vanilla extract into a fat base, you run the risk of curdling your mix. Even without eggs, it's still a risk. As an aside, you add vanilla to a hot mix at the very end to avoid burning off the alcohol. 

Mise En Place - Scene Three

See the big blue bowl on the left? If that bowl has so much as an infinitesimal spec of fat of any sort, your egg whites will be soup. If you think there has been a mishap with either the beaters and or the bowl, stop, run the water to hot hot hot and wash. Dry it well. No fat. Got it? No water. Good. Next.

Avoiding the fat applies to the egg white's worst enemy: The Deadly Yolk.

I have never been able to explain why I separate eggs that way I do. I will show you what I do and you will do it however works best for you. Also, eggs need to not be past their expiration date. Old eggs present yolks that are just dying to break. Old eggs present whites that believe they are water.

This is how I separate an egg. I had to photograph this with my right hand so you're really only seeing the end of the process but...

With my egg over the white bowl, I very carefully knock it on the rim of the bowl to create a crack just big enough to pry my way in. I don't want to shatter the egg. I just want to set it free.

Turn the egg upright and pry it apart gently. This works because egg white isn't really fluid and isn't really solid but it is all stuck together and so, having broken the eggshell in half, tilt it forward to let the white out while using the top of the shell to hold back the yolk.

But wait! the cracked shell has jagged pointy badness for yolk edges! What do you do?

If you look carefully, you'll notice the top and bottom of the shell are still slightly connected by the inner membrane and the white goes over board so fast all I have to do is catch that yolk and pull it back. It's ok to give up some of the white; you'd have one hell of a time separating it anyway. 

Dump the yolk in the yolk bowl. Now look at the white bowl. This is why the white bowl is white. See any trace of yellow in there? Nope, me neither. Sometimes you can break the yolk on the way to the yolk bowl, especially if they aren't quite fresh (this batch was pretty good). If you have broken the yolk, you need to be absolutely certain that none of it has gotten into the white. If there is any yellow on your hands, wash them with soap and water before you move on. 

Transfer the egg white into the big, absolutely fat free mixing bowl and repeat.

This is why we break one egg at a time and transfer to the big bowl. OOPS@!!!!! It slipped right out of my paws and dropped into the white bowl. This happens more easily than you'd think because believe it or not, the white is actually attached to the yellow which is why you give up on getting all the white out of the shell. Let it go.

Note: Do you see how the yellow stands up but also the white is standing up? There is some running white as well. This means my egg is still in pretty good shape but it surely did not come from the hen house yesterday. 

So, got a broken yoke? Dump the whole thing out, wash the bowl or get a clean bowl and move on. Imagine doing this into a six egg set and having to toss the entire batch. Sucks a lot. 

Got a whole yolk? It can be saved if it's not too old. 

Very gently insert a soup sized spoon, not a cereal or teaspoon sized spoon, under the yolk. Hold it against the side of the bowl for just a few seconds to let whatever white wants to slide back into the bowl and then dump it unceremoniously into the yolk bowl where it was supposed to be in the first place. And move on.

And we're ready to whip. 

I whipped these egg whites, which were at room temperature, for a full five minutes before I got what I wanted which is stiff foam with peaks. 

I would have liked slightly stiffer peaks but you can over-whip your whites and it's not nearly as entertaining as when you over-whip your cream and get butter. When you over-whip your whites they collapse. Do you see how they're starting to pull away from the side of the bowl at the left? That's why I stopped. Also, look at the beater. 

If you get everything else wrong but you're still here with whipped whites, for the love of Dog, don't foul this up. Let's do that again:

 

Romancing the Egg Whites

If this fails, dump the wretched batch in the kitchen trash and head to your local pub

 

It is time to introduce the egg whites to the fat and sugar base. This is the second to last thing you do before you open the oven door and they either fall in love or one is beaten into submission. Think of it like a blind date set up by your grandmother. 

Soufflés rise, White Cakes rise, and I've been told that Angel Food Cakes rise, because of the air which has been ferociously whipped into the egg whites.

Do not break the air. If you break the air, you get a brick. If you don't break the air, maybe you get something nice (so many things could still go haywire but this is the big one).

I transfer and FOLD in about one third of my egg whites at a time. I use the most innocuous thing I can find to transfer my whites. The rubber spatula was in the sink so I grabbed this mostly harmless flat thing. 

When you hear or read the words, fold into, that means FOLD into. GENTLY, using the spatula (I retrieved it from the sink), begin to mix the two opposing compounds as if one of them might explode if you move too fast. Don't stir, fold. Sorry, no photographer. Take the rubber spatula and slide it down the inside of the bowl. Turning the spatula, scoop the fat compound very carefully over the air compound. You will hear crackling. That's the sound of your air running out. When the egg whites are almost mixed, repeat with the next third and finally the last. 

This is what I want to see. Almost mixed. If you know anything about making pancakes, then you know there is a reason for not mixing the batter thoroughly. This is a similar sort of idea with similar results if you over-mix.

Now aren't you glad your pans are ready? I wouldn't want my little cake soufflé to sit on it's heavy self any longer than possible. I want my little cake soufflé in the 'at temp' oven as soon as humanly possible and I only want to touch this mix one more time. 

When you scoop/pour the mix into the cake pans, use the spatula, getting up under the mix from the bottom of the bowl. You get one shot to fill them evenly. You cannot move them again.     

The Cake Baby

When your Cake Baby is in the oven, here are the modified house rules:

1. NO THING will crash against anything within the walls of the house
2. No Creature will speak or mew or bark or wheekie wheekie wheekie above a whisper 
3. You will not break the heat. That means don't open the freaking door unless you see flames
4. The kitchen will be protected from draft at all times. I don't really care how hot or cold it is (between 50 and 80F should be fine) but I do care about fluctuation. Cake Babies get confused
5. The doorbell WILL NOT ring. Think of the crankiest, colickiest, tiredest, hungriest, wet and poopiest babies you know. Those babies have finally passed out into a colicky poopie hungry cranky stupor. Do you know what's worse than a cranky, colicky, tired, hungry, wet and poopie baby? The one that wakes up because of the asshole who touched the doorbell. 

Your cakes are cranky, colicky, tired, hungry, wet and poopie babies. Tread with care

Because I have 9 inch pans, these were baked at 350 F for 30 minutes. If you have 8 inch pans, check for doneness at 35 minutes. Doneness is checked with a toothpick. Not a knife, a toothpick. I didn't have one but I did have one of those bamboo skewers. You can clearly see the hole on the right. Doesn't matter. You're never going to see it again after the first 15 minute cooling. Notice they are also pulling away from the sides. Probably I should have pulled them two minutes earlier. My cranky babies are going to lose a little loft but at least I didn't break the heat. Like my son, who was permitted to remain in utero 16 days past his due date, the cakes deflated a bit. Mike lost a bit of weight and came out a bit more shriveled than he might have; it was OK, he was still cute as hell. 

Rest your cakes in their pans on a wire rack. I don't know where my wire racks have wandered off so I got creative. If my cakes sit flat with no air on the bottom, the cooling rate is different AND you run the risk of the cakes continuing to cook for another minute or two because their bottoms are retaining heat. Now is usually a good time to run a knife around the sides to loosen the cake. I waited because mine were already pulling away.

This is where I swore a blue streak and started thinking about the pub. This house, this lovely, lovely cottage is BEYOND DRAFTY in the winter. The far cake is already falling on one side. I grabbed the freaking big ass, thick as hell throw pillow and placed it between the cakes and the window. And those are the modern windows. Then I prayed.

While praying, I opened the cabinet for two plates on which to invert my cakes. To be honest, I cried. When we moved in we purchased a mid size plate. A little smaller than a traditional dinner plate, and bigger than a lunch or salad plate. We purchased twelve of them. We have very limited cabinet space and also I didn't want to pay another $50 for little plates. The reason this is sitting next to my great great grandmother's china is to make two points.

1. For real, guys, my plates are too freaking small to be cake plates
2. Once upon a time in America, we did not need to super size it. 

No more crying. Look around your kitchen, quick. What other implement of destruction can be a flat surface (please, not the counter, please, not the counter, I only have four linear feet of counter).

Cutting boards. I got a mess of cutting boards. I picked the two least offensive looking plastic boards and covered them with parchment paper. Why? Because these things are going to be sticky as shit when I flip them back over. Also, clear packing tape should be a staple in every kitchen. Just say'n.

Turn your cakes upside down, holding your hand, fingers and thumb spread as wide open as possible (don't press) against the top of the cake to keep it from breaking in half or falling out. Gently slip the cake baby onto the final cooling location. If it isn't sliding right out, turn it right side up and loosen the edges with  a knife again. The parchment on the bottom of the pans is meant to release the cake babies right out of the pan, unless you got stingy with the butter in which case, go to the pub.

I do not subscribe to the school of - put the plate on top of the cake pan and flip it over. Too much can go terribly wrong. Think of it as birthing a baby. A cranky cake baby.

Peel the parchment paper off the bottom. If you don't do it now you may be eating it later. It should come right up.

This is the last thing you do before you make your frosting. You look at the kitchen clock and you add three hours. It's OK if it's more than three hours but it is NOT OK if it is less. The cakes must absolutely be at room temperature. Don't put your hand on that and tell me it's cool when you feel a wee bit of heat radiating from somewhere. I always make myself a note. 

 

PART TWO ~ The Buttercream

You didn't think we were going to leave this unfrosted, did you? Also, since PART TWO exists, we can safely assume a less than tragic cake result. 

Everything in its place and a place for everything - Scene - uh - four?

*yes, the milk is indeed in a stemless wine glass. Multiple functions, right?

The idea of buttercream freaks me out a bit; it always has. But then I think about what's in mass produced product and I want to eat enough dirt to clear my palate permanently. OK, so you and your nearest and dearest are going to consume half a pound of butter. 

Let that sink in.

Into the creamed butter will go:

• 3 Cups, more or less, of powdered sugar
• 3 Tablespoons, more or less, of cream
• Maybe some salt
• 1 Teaspoon of vanilla

I'm afraid to say, this is hard to screw up but that's never true of anything. It is, however, pretty easy to fix if it gets too wet, just add more sugar. If it's too dry, add more milk. Easy peasy. Maybe.

Truth #1:    Powdered sugar gets EVERYwhere. Be prepared.
Truth #2:    There is absolutely no butter substitute in buttercream frosting. Don't even think it. 
Truth #3:    We beat the vanilla in this one. Sorry. Not a lie before but no real choice here.
Truth #4:    No matter how good your buttercream, if it goes on the cake looking like a five year old's school project, it's not buttercream. It's a freaking mess.

So here we go, you got two cakes out of the oven without a tragedy, then you know most of what you need to know.

Beat the ROOM TEMPERATURE 2 sticks of butter until we could conceivably call it creamed. 

I like to put all the sugar in a bowl and then add it with a half cup measure. This is not a precision recipe so we have not sifted our powdered sugar. If it did require precision you'd get that sieve right back out and start shaking. You have a reprieve.

I like to have the milk as close at hand as possible without me elbowing it off the counter. That's why it goes all the way at the back of the counter where I can't reach it.

Milk? Did you read that correctly? I ran out of heavy cream. I never have heavy cream. I don't even know how to locate it in the supermarket. I do, however, keep whole milk in the house. Anything less than whole milk and I would have put my boots on and marched down the street to the little store that sells milk. And other things. Probably cream. 

You're going to alternate between sugar and milk. As with the cake, start with dry, end with dry. As the sugar melts into the butter, the consistency will go from crumbly to smooth so be careful about the when and how much of the milk additions. Erm, sorry, cream. You will scrape the sides of that bowl more than you'd think possible. If I handled a pie crust this way, my mortification would be epic but it can't be helped. 

I prefer a very stiff frosting. If you choose a stiff frosting, you'll need to be competent in the action of frosting a cake. I can't say I am. I can say I have a general idea and know a trick or two but I wouldn't show up in public with it, no matter how tasty. I have made something I'm going to struggle with, but no one but me (and Elizabeth) (and you) will see. 

The thing to keep in mind about butter cream is you mustn't touch it with your hands. Yes, I am aware that we started at room temperature but you and I both know the human body is a great deal warmer than 68F. Don't touch!! We have tools for this.

Once you've beaten the butter, cream, and sugar into frosting, sprinkle one teaspoon of vanilla across the surface. This speeds up the vanilla transport process.  And then go ahead, turn the beater back on and cringe a bit but don't stop until it's done. I cream butter and sugar at high speed. I mix vanilla in at medium.

Now I have a problem. Remember in part 1 when I looked around for a plate to hold the cakes when they came out of the pans? Remember how I don't actually own anything cake sized? Right. I used the parchment covered cutting boards. Let's not do that with a finished cake. Let's find something that works.

I gaze upward at the Stegosaurus Stand. It's going to need washing.

Now we are ready to begin.

I am not a fan of cutting up a cake before its time. I'm referring to the practice of slicing the slightly rounded top off a cake to flatten it out. There are other ways. 

I chose the most stable of the two - the one that did not catch a blast of arctic wind causing it to deflate a bit on one side. I placed the cake upside down on the Stego-Stand. Yay! perfectly flat top. This is my favorite part of frosting a cake. Short of putting way too little or way too much in the middle, you can pretty much do anything you want and no one will ever see the drama.  

I used a very hot, wet knife to smooth out the top and sides. I had to go back to the sides three or four times because I kept scraping down to the bone. No light touch on this woman. 

It's a bit lopsided, it's not as big as I'd like, but it is most assuredly a White Cake. 

Next time I'm leaving the vanilla out entirely. I want whiter than white, dammit!

And yes, it does taste different than most cakes. It has no yolks. Yolks change everything. 

Not too much frosting in the middle. I like frosting as much as the next butter eater but not so much in the middle.

Ah, I used a hot wet paper towel to clean up that Stego-Stand. You do know I didn't finish up without a major mess, right?

Note to Lucia: You might get this right and still find the texture and taste objectionable. That's what I was thinking when I ate it for breakfast this morning. It is not the same as a cake with yolks and what comes out of the box, IS, actually a tragedy. Give it another shot. 

 

Cat whiskers

Elizabeth informs me that he was born in March of 2009, not too long after the cat from South Jersey with too many names to remember dropped dead at four of kidney failure. That's a little early. Makes you wonder what she got into. This was just before every vet in Fairfield County was lobotomized by PETA which resulted in the treatment of literally anything, from kitty sneezing to organ transplants, blood transfusions, and life supports for an indeterminate amount of time, as if it were your own child, prone on the crinkly rice paper, bodily fluids circling the drain in the cement floor, giving you that look.

For the record, as a bonafide lifelong fuck you very much PETA for making such a terrible mess of all this, Animal Person:

Do you know what the look means?

It's very simple. I means, please, for the love of The Rainbow Bridge, MAKE IT STOP!!!! MAKE IT STOP RIGHT NOW OH MY GOD IF YOU HADN'T DRAGGED ME IN HERE I'D HAVE FOUND A PLACE TO CRAWL OFF AND DIE QUIETLY. IN PRIVATE. ALL ANIMAL LIKE. 

Do not stick that shit in me. I will haunt you until the day you come looking for me. You know, when you're dead. When you're dead and you choose to cross The Rainbow Bridge leaving your entire family, not to mention your ancestors (who are NOT what you'd like to think) eternally behind, for a DOG. Or a CAT. Please. OK. Fine. Animal of Your Choice. Brief. Visit and then exit the way you came in)

That's what the animal circling the drain is saying with the look. I trusted you, dammit. 

However, in February of 2009, vets were still vets, for the most part. In February of 2009 after a trip to the vet to find out what the hell was wrong with this cat and some fairly expensive blood work which was no longer in the household budget, he informed me, very gently, that my cat was in renal failure. At four. Yup. Four. 

Vet:    How do you want to handle this?

Me:    I can take her home and ride it out until it's over or we can be done with it now, right?

Vet:    Correct. I'm sorry.

Me:    She doesn't seem to be in agony (although who can really be sure?) and she does seem to be taking quite a bit of comfort in human contact (which is a new one, she hates us, she pees on my feet when I'm still asleep...)

Vet:    Yes, she does seem to be liking that.

Me:    So kitty hospice is a reasonable alternative to death right now.

Vet:    I think so, but if it looks like she's had enough, just bring her in. No need to make an appointment. We stop what we're doing for this sort of thing.

Me:    OK. That's what we'll do. We'll ride it out until we can't or until she dies peacefully in a hole somewhere.

Vet:    Cough. That's the other thing. Given the opportunity, she will find a hole in which to die peacefully.

Me:    You mean, good luck finding the corpse?

Vet:    Well, eventually you'll smell her. That will make it easier.

Me:    We alrighty then, we play find the dead body about a week after she's crawled off.

Vet:    Yup. Call me if you need anything.

Me:    Like finding the dead cat?

Vet:    Nope. That's on you.

Me:    Reasonable.

Not too much longer, but the ground was still frozen, she disappeared. We looked everywhere. We tore the house apart. Nothing. 

What do we do now, asked the girls.

We wait until we can smell her.

OK, accepted the chicken killing girls. We wait.

Lucia got very sick and took to her bed with the window wide open and the winter air filling the room. It didn't much help. Lucia's room smelled disgusting until the day we moved out. It smelled disgusting then, too, but we left it behind.

It smelled faintly of dead cat as well as disgusting room so that's where we looked first. Except for Lucia who'd taken to her bed. We pulled the closet apart, stuck our unprotected hands and flashlights into the black hole which served as bed suspension. Nothing.

I removed enough sheetrock from the back of the hall closet to get into the crawl space. Nothing. 

It started to smell really, really bad. I started to be sorry about leaving the needle behind.

Two weeks after the cat vanished, I made one more pass through Lucia's room, specifically under the bed and into the black hole. This time I dove right in. Slithering around on my belly, squeezing, pulling, sniffing. It all smelled terrifically bad but... as I pulled the duffle toward me, the one I'd checked a week before, a terrific stench storm filled what remained of the free space under the bed. I lost breakfast onto a dusty t-shirt, wiped my face with the sleeve, and balled it up. I backed out of the black hole with the duffle in one hand and much better smelling shirt in the other.

There she was, all curled up in the middle of the duffle, surrounded by the sweat and dirt stained camp clothes from the summer before. The bloat was over and true rigor had set in. 

When the ground finally thawed enough to dig a hole, we took her stinking corpse (no number of towels and contractor bags will mask the smell of rotting flesh and innards) out of the downstairs freezer and dropped her naked into the hole (no sense filling the ground with plastic bags or even towels). She was perfectly preserved. 

I decided we were going to be cat-less for a while. 

Girls:    How long?!

Me:    I don't know. Long enough. Squeegee has been gone a while now, Chuck went last winter, Baby Frankie had to be removed from the neighborhood in December and I just can't do this again right now. We have Simon and Homer. Be happy.

Simon:    I'm happy. 

Homer:    I'm just gonna hide over here awhile. You three smell of death.

******************************************

In July of that year, I took Fridays off because I could because it was to make up for the 10% pay cut which came out of a paycheck that wasn't going to make ends meet anyway. This was the first summer and winter of rice and beans.

In July of that year, on a Friday, Elizabeth and I were at the beach in Westport which was a rare thing because it cost $35 to get in there on a weekday. Weekends were out of the question. Elizabeth loved the playground and I loved no part of it whatsoever, but we went two or three Fridays anyway.

In the mean time, I had been looking for cats or kittens. It used to be really easy to find a kitten. Someone always had a litter or knew someone who did. Not so much anymore. I called a few shelters and was told no by one man because my vet wasn't on the approved list (he preferred pure bred dogs for the most part and I surely do understand why). Another told me no because I let my cats outside. Of course I do! They're cats! Click.

I almost got all the way through the third hurdle, visiting the basement apartment of a young woman fostering at least a dozen kittens. They crawled over the mattress on the floor, an island in the world's biggest indoor litter box. I did not gag. This is impressive. She asked if there was any particular kitten I liked and I said, no, any will do. 

That look. You'd have thought she was circling a drain. 

Any kitten is just fine. Can I take one now?

No. 

OK, what do you need?

I need an application and a donation.

OK, do you have the application?

No, I will submit your name and address and an application will be mailed to you.

For real?

Yes. 

OK.

Two weeks later I got the application, part of which was a release for a background check. I think that on it's own would have been enough for me to tell them to take every small creature in their possession to a kill shelter asap because it wasn't going to get any better.

The last part about knocked me over. I would be required to attend an eight hour seminar in Manhattan on the understanding and care of cats. 

I called the girl with the pee soaked mattress.

Is this a joke?

No. It's a requirement.

I've had cats my entire life.

You still have to go.

Click.

Elizabeth at the beach:        Mom. Can we get a kitten today?

Mom:                                I don't really know where to get a kitten, sweetie.

Elizabeth at the beach:       You can get one at a pet store.

Mom:                                I don't think that's true anymore and if they are at the pet store you have to fill out an application which I will surely fail. 

Elizabeth at the beach:       Why don't you just write what they want to read?

Mom:                                .... I can't do that, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth at the beach:       very sad face 

On the way home from the beach, all sticky and covered in sand, I made a hard left at the intersection of Compo and the Post Road followed by an almost immediate hard right into a driveway which led to a perfectly nondescript building at the top of the hill.

Elizabeth after the beach:       Why, Mom?

Me:                                    Wait and see but please, I beg of you, do not let Mommy anywhere near the dogs. That will end very, very badly. 

Elizabeth after the beach:      The first kitten was easy. She picked a calico, small and unbearably fluffy, like a teddybear hamster and reasonably affectionate.

Me:                                    Tri-colors tend to be feral and stay that way. She might be nice right now, but more than likely she'll be god awful in about six months.

Elizabeth after the beach:      OK. Then this one is for Lucia.

Me:                                    {EVIL little sister}  OK. So now you want two kittens?

Elizabeth after the beach:      Yes. 

Me:                                    Have at it. 

She found him in a LARGE dog crate, moved around the corner and out of sight of the other cats and kittens. He was hanging from one of the bars in the middle of the top of the crate, both paws wrapped together like a monkey climbing a jungle gym. That would have had to be one hell of a jump for that little kitty to reach the top of that LARGE dog crate.

Apropos of absolutely nothing:    Yowlllllll Yoooowwwwwlllll Yooowwowowowowow- EL!

The tag on the side of the crate read: Moulin. Just that, Moulin. 

Elizabeth after the beach:      What does that mean?

Me:                                    Well, it might be Thibault Moulin but you'd have to really follow soccer to know that name. Turns out it was that Moulin. Absurd that I recognized the name of a nineteen year old French midfielder, except I did.

Elizabeth after the beach:      I don't like that name.

Me:                                    That's OK, I don't much care for that cat.

Elizabeth after the beach:      Wot?

It ended like this:

1. I escaped into the dog's kennel and was rescued by Elizabeth (as promised)
2. In return I agreed to put both kittens in a room to make sure Moulin wouldn't instantly kill the other
3. The Feral tri-color kicked his ass
4. He didn't seem to notice
5. I asked with obvious trepidation, what it was going to take to get these animals out of their cages and into my home.
6. I was told with some level of amusement that a check for $120 each and an application would do it.
7. I asked if this could happen today and was told, oh yes, take them out right now. They were spayed and neutered and chipped and that was good enough for me. The application was for the registration of the chips and for the donation receipt and then we walked the hell out of there with two oversized rodent boxes containing tiny cats

************************************

We gave Ellie to Lucia who loved her passionately until Ellie no longer returned human love, having traded Lucia for Simon. Lucia immediately co-opted Marty and Elizabeth was left cat-less which is reasonable because she shut him in her dresser drawer (so that I know where he is when I get home!) on more than one occasion.

************************************

Today there is only Marty, Ellie having let herself out last winter and gone wherever feral cats go (I never did find a body and I did go looking - for weeks). There is only Marty who turned 10 this past March and will be 11 if he makes it through the upcoming winter. Marty who comes and goes as he pleases now and keeps turning up alive.

I say that I am done, the same way I am done with dogs, with pets of any sort, when this cat's time is over but I don't think it's going to be easy. 

There's a thing that happens to a cat, and maybe a dog, but more likely a cat, when the cat has lost every one of its animal companions, assuming it had them. First, Ellie out the door and he was confused. She will come back, he told me. She is an idiot, he told me later and I am going to scratch her eyes out when she comes home. 

I don't want to discuss it, he said, when he finally gave up.

When I took the dog away, he crawled into my lap and wouldn't get off. Sinking his claws into any surface available to drag himself back up. 

You don't even like the dog!

I know.

No, really, I'm pretty sure you flat out hated that dog.

It's true. I did. I do hate that dog.

Soooooo.... you're freaked out because the dog is gone?

Who said I'm freaked out? I'm not freaked out, I'm FINE!

You're barfing up most of your food.

Yeah, about that...could you be a little more liberal about how much you put out at one time?

No. You'll just barf it up again. Listen, don't die on me, OK? Just give me another year. Even six months. Please don't die on me, Kat.

Give me some love.

You sound like a dog.

Now you're just being mean.

************************************

It took a while to work out reasonable sleeping arrangements. Elizabeth's room is on permanent lockdown. If she finds him in there she threatens to throw him out the window.

I still have a sign with a drawing of a cat in a circle with a line through the circle and something about no cats and death by dismemberment and all that.

I don't take kindly to a 17 pound, not quite as graceful as he might be, bouncing off the walls and furniture pinball that got slapped just a little to hard at, um, 2 AM usually. The landing spot: My bed. I had to chase him out with a broom one night.

He wants to sleep on the right side of the bed. The right side of the bed is MY side of the bed, cat, and I am NOT going to spoon you. You're too warm (yup, he does want to be spooned and will do just about anything to position himself properly). We have words about his subtle and not so subtle attempts to position himself immediately to my right which include starting out on the left side and slithering between my head and the headboard.

He wants to sleep between my legs, just under my knees. Bloody Hell, NO! It's like being shackled. 

He agrees that sleeping just off my left shoulder is acceptable as long as I don't bump him too much.

I have made it clear that cat bathing of any kind will not happen on my bed, anywhere on or under my bed while I am trying to sleep. He is noisy freaking bather. Sounds like he's tearing open a mouse. 

He has made it clear that he has NO idea what I'm talking about when I stay, Martin! Stop that this instant!

I have made it clear that he gets three chances and then he gets bumped about until he's irritated enough to jump off the bed with a thud and stalk out of the room.

************************************

Many hours later (probably after his bath), I feel the very light landing of a cat toward the foot of the bed. A grey shadow makes its way to the top of the bed on very soft at paws.

He approaches my face verrrryyyy carefully, and so, so gently, I feel his whiskers just barely brush my face. Once, twice, and maybe three times, the whiskers touch my face like butterfly wings. I smile and whisper his name or I just smile.

If he decides to lick my ear or face just one time, I smile. If he attempts to come at me with that tongue again, I grrr until he stops.

When he has finished whiskering my face he flops. He might flop with his back up against the side of my face or he might give me a little more room.

Or, he might flop with his chin outstretched and his neck, longer than I would have imagined possible, across my neck until the top of his head is under my chin.

He purrs for a minute or less, and in the silence of the room I am aware of his intentional closeness.

Cat whiskers.

I feel like a GODDDDDD

Like buttah. The belaying system? Dead weight should be left dead on the ground where it died.

My out loud voice. Does it count if I know I should be sorry?

It will be a lot easier getting them down next June. I'd like to leave them there but that's not reasonable. It's one thing to work with not having heat upstairs in the winter and another entirely to sleep in an oven in the summer. 

Stop whining, Alecto. You grew up without A/C and also without a generator but you did have a fireplace and a dug well which means water could be had when the power was out. 

Which brings me to that pulley system I was avoiding. Dammit. 

But I could have drilled 3/8th inch holes into those beams all day long! 

Repurposed: traditional methods of habitation

Shane leaves me alone for the first twenty minutes of any visit unless the store is dead empty and he hasn't talked to a person in maybe six minutes. Shane seems to like this job; he understands the moving and not so much moving parts as if the store was his responsibility. Maybe it is. 

He's learned that if he greets me like a golden retriever and asks what I need, I'll get flustered and forget why I was there in the first place. If I circle each aisle, pulling back the sliding racks to see what's hiding I'm more than likely to remember exactly why I'm there and solve for missing objects in the process. He almost had me talked into sanding the inside edges of 100 flat bolts because I couldn't find the 100 quarter inch rings I sort of need and frequent friction on a lifting cord is probably not the best idea. The lifting cord is for Roman Shades; don't get excited, just imagine the back side of a Roman Shade and how the pulley system on those things works. Rings, rings, and more rings. 

To be clear, I am not making Roman Shades. I am retrofitting decent thermal blackout drapes to look and behave like Roman Shades. There is a significant difference. Sweartogod. 

But. The 3/8th ring bolt has nothing to do with window treatments.

I know what they can do. I know what they should not do. I know what happens with too much diagonal pull or lift. I'm going to use them anyway the best way I know how.

The 3/8th drill bit is a little unnerving. 

Here is the problem to be solved with things I already own and very little money to be spent on things I do not already own and also: for every one thing that comes into this house, two things have to leave. It's a pretty serious rule. 

Note: Some things vanish on their own. Not so helpful as you'd think. 

The problem:

• Drop down attic stairs (for which I am eternally grateful; I expected a hole in the ceiling covered up by a piece of painted plywood).
• Drop down attic stairs at what has got to be the steepest legal angle. Resting something on the stair above you is a dubious proposition.
• Almost zero storage space in the house. 
  • Living space
    • One small coat closet - Full:
      • Coats
      • Blow up bed
      • Portable A/C unit. 
    • Very small console/cabinet - Full:
      • Vinyl
      • CD spill over
      • DVDs I pretend we don't own. 
    • Larger cabinet which holds my great, great grandmother's china which I fully intend to continue using. The television sits on top of this cabinet
    • Very small audio cabinet which hold three components and the printer on top
    • Very small very old chest which holds office supplies and photographs that haven't been rotated, scanned and disposed of
    • UNDER THE SOFA: Ha. Two very nice wood card tables that only look like card tables because they're perfectly square. They slide right out, legs open and lock and a table cloth may or may not appear. This sits six comfortably and eight intimately. 
  • Harry Potter Room under the stairs (butler's passthrough pantry) - FULL!!!: 
    • Pantry. This is the only place we can sore food other than the refrigerator. You'll have to think about this
    • Garage. All tools and implements of destruction. My hammers, extension cords, and drill live on the pantry shelves because they've earned it.
    • Utility closet (lightbulbs, anyone? Tape?)
    • Additional workspace. Mixmaster and toaster.
    • Cat potty with privacy curtain. 
  • The kitchen - FULL!!!
    • Three deep, recessed shelves.
      • These hold everyone I own except things we eat and drink from. Think: 15% of a lifetime of carefully acquired kitchen implements of destruction
    • Kitchen island has two selves.
      • It's a workspace when the surface is clear
      • Mini microwave
      • Daily cookware on the first and second shelves and hanging from hooks off the towel rack to the left.
      • Small drawer holds oven mitts and spare dishtowels and serving forks and spoons
    • Kitchen cabinets over and to the side of the sink:
      • Three of five are very difficult to use. I forget what's in there on a regular basis
      • Double glass cabinet above the sink - MY FAVORITE CABINET/CLOSET IN THE ENTIRE HOUSE. Holds all glass and dinnerware.
      • Under the sink cabinet, definitely viable for cleaning supplies, dish soap, and trash bags 
  • Foyer - really this is a landing at the base of the stairs but it's got a little bit of room:
    • Two very small dining room chairs sit on top of a vacuum cleaner and below coats on hooks.
    • Open the basement door and look forward: For wooden folding chairs on a shelf which occurred when the original stairway was removed.
  • Upstairs landing
    • Steamer trunk which holds 5% of the contents of a large linen closet. 
  • Bathroom lunacy 
    • • Small cabinet. Girl stuff. I can't open it, I'll cry.
      • A very small night table that contains everything else you'd expect in a bathroom and medicine cabinet. It has two shelves, a small drawer, and a wire basket under the first shelf. 
      • Towel basket: holds ten towels folded square. Damned convenient.
      • Small shelf above the small cabinet. Whimper. More girl stuff. I occupy 25% of that space.  
  • Elizabeth's room
    • Large (VERY subjective) closet. I can't look. I really cannot look.
    • Smallish tall dresser with mirror. 
    • Desk with two drawers
    • Odd wood file cabinet which holds her turntable and I'm afraid what else 
    • Under her bed: absolutely nothing! So damn useful. So damn unused.
  • My room. I just can't. I can't. 
    • SMALL closet. 
    • Under my bed
    • Under my dresser
    • Under the armoire. Full.
    • Dresser, armoire and closet - also, full.

When measured carefully, the four rooms which we occupy total 529 square feet. If I added the two landings, the bathroom, and the Harry Potter Room we'd get another 100 square feet, I think. If I added the walking space in the basement (that's all I'm willing to count at this point), maybe another 50, the Harry Potter Room would give me +12 but...

THE ATTIC IS THE FULL LENGTH AND WIDTH OF THE HOUSE. The attic also has a complete floor with a carpet to insulate about 60% of it. The attic is also sheltered by a wood shingle roof which seems to behave differently than your normal run of the mill asphalt shingles. I can see that the roof has been solidy shored up but those beams, those beams are OLD. Also, solid and useful. I'm getting to the point. 

The attic is a very useful place to store things. You have to think seriously about what seasonal changes will do to whatever you throw up there and some things are truly at risk but it's be at risk or be gone. Camping gear. That's a good example. China. Doesn't ever go up there. Clothing, not a problem if you're rotating. If you're just storing, get rid of it unless you really think you'll need it again (does that blue ball gown really have to stay?). 

Do you see where I might be going here with two 3/8th ring bolts? You can only use these to pull straight up. You can only use this if you don't care if it falls or if the person spotting the lift can hold the weight above her head for maybe twenty seconds. 

One pulley (which this is definitely not but it uses the same type of energy or force) changes the direction of the required force. Two pulleys reduce the required effort (that's an actual term, I did not make it up this time). A ring bolt is not a pulley in that you have no friction and no stop mechanism. What I had in mind when I bought the ring bolts was climbing ropes, pitons, and the effort to belay the dead weight of the terrified. I recognize that I'm going to have to tie off somewhere. 

One ringbolt will support 160 lbs unless I add some torque, in which case, all bets are off. I am not using generic household rope (clothesline...). I'm using scary rope AND I intend to avoid torque like a bad case of creeping crabs.

So, listen, back up to 529 square feet. Compare that to the average tiny house (100 - 400 sq ft), or a boat (approximately 175 sq ft) is far less than 529. AND I believe all space is counted in a tiny house and on a boat. People have expressed that it was like giving half your life away to move into that sort of space. I think it's more like 80% of your life because I've lost at least 50, maybe more because all, except the bedroom furniture and two trunks, had to be left behind. Too big. 

I looked up apartment sizes in New York City and was mildly surprised and then not particularly convinced that this was the truth. An average NYC apartment is not 800 square feet unless we're talking about the 2% or we are talking about rent controlled post war uptown apartments with three bedrooms, dining room, living room, bathroom, and sometimes even a little maid's room with small bath tucked out of the way. When I look at my little house and imagine it in Chelsea, maybe, it seems freaking enormous. I don't recall ever seeing an apartment with a full size kitchen with the exception of the post war buildings. I remember being in a really lovely apartment off Fifth and 72nd somewhere. It probably was 400 sq feet but it had literally no kitchen.

How do you eat?

What?

How do you eat?

I go downstairs and get food, why?

Where do you store it?

Store it?

Um, I think I get it.

Yes, the primary living space which serves as living room, library, and dining room is only 200 square feet.

Boat.

I'll let you know what happens in the attic.  

 

Miss Lucy's Lady With the Alligator Purse

There is a straw in my cocktail. I know perfectly well I don't look like a twelve year old; maybe this is meant to be consumed from the bottom up. It is an absurdly layered drink very much like the one Lucia ordered to match a Hatteras sunset. Also, I am fairly certain I would never have ordered a drink with a straw, with the exception of a Bloody Mary. I can't comment on the layers. I wasn't sure if I should be at least a little affronted or just surprised. The drink menu left with my order but I didn't recall anything in the description involving magic science tricks. There was something lodged in the grey matter about the density of water and the density of oil and why one floats on the surface of the other. 

Ha! Red wine is less dense than the concoction of lemon, sugar, and whiskey sitting at the bottom of the glass waiting to be slurped first through the straw. This can't be right. If I wanted my dinner wine served alongside the wait for dinner cocktail, I would have ordered a whiskey sour NEXT to a glass of wine; a two fisted drinker with an odd choice in chasers. 

I promptly removed the straw the way I remove the straw from a glass of water at a diner. Plop. Purple on white linen. Elizabeth was mortified and wanted to get something to rinse it out. I explained linen services and that anything short of blood and/or lipstick comes out. She was dubious. I thought about drinking from the top of the glass sans straw (which had created a purple straw-shaped death scene. I throw my napkin over the corpse) and decide no matter how good the wine, it isn't going to taste like wine anymore.

I put the straw back in the glass. 

Slurp. 

Slurp.

Slurp slurp slurp... that sound that happens at the bottom of the glass... SLUrp.

Waiter:    Would you like another?

Me:         That might end badly. 

Waiter:    Would you like to see the wine list again?

Me:         That would also end badly. 

Dinner was impeccable. The service was impeccable. We'd walked in the door at 4:45, Open Table having committed the crime of lying about available seats and times, and nearly wreaked havoc by confirming a reservation 75 minutes prior to doors open. I owe the kitchen. I've already taken care of the waiter. 

**************************************

In broad daylight we drove down a longish rough road into a mostly empty parking lot which suggested valet parking and no other.

I hate that. I pulled into the valet only parking lot with zero cash in my pocket and thought about turning around and ordering a pizza instead. We were hungry; she was petulant, and I was whiney. Best to get this over with. I parked in the upper left corner of what might as well have been a grass field, ground surface undulating, waiting for the first pair of heels of the night.

SCORE! Shouted the upper left corner. 

Nope, sorry, casual black flats and high topped used to be white Converse. 

It's funny how one person's response to a thing might be a flood of warm fuzzy memories and to the other, absolute horror.

I'm not going in there, Mom.

Why the hell not (whine), it's a barn built in 1770 and turned into an inn in 1880. What could possibly go wrong?

They're going to be mean to us because we're underdressed.

They are not going to be mean because I am not underdressed.

Mom. You're wearing flats, slightly grubby jeans, and a t-shirt with definitely inappropriate holes. 

I examined the front of my shirt. 

I don't see any holes.

Mom. You know exactly where the holes are in that shirt.

Right. Those aren't holes, they're air vents. Elizabeth, walk into a place as if you were perfectly turned out but more importantly, as if you truly and thoroughly belong there. Works 99.99999% of the time unless you're a man and missing the requisite jacket and tie which is still OK because they'll just loan them to you. You turn them back in right before the man comes with the car. Besides, Elizabeth, the place is deserted. The best we can hope for is mediocre food and decent service. Now take a breath and walk forward before I pass out.

I might be too booby.

You are often too booby based on your standards as I understand them. If you're really worried about it, sit up straight with your hands in your lap and everything will be fine.

How will I eat like that! I at least need my hands.  sooooo literal, this one

Nope. Sorry. No food for the too booby.

Sniff.

Had this been Lucia, it would have been a Maaaaaaaa (think loud and shrill) and a smack on my arm. I have learned that no matter how obnoxious, Lucia is not a snack. Lucia is a person and we do not bite people. Mostly. 

Mike would have imagined he was wearing one of the beautiful suits he was required to purchase and wear when he worked at The Suitery (I don't think JoS. A. Banks would appreciate being called The Suitery, but it's kind of accurate) and muttered:  mother. a heads up would have been appreciated. 

Elizabeth is generally a little easier.

The meal was everything I thought I should be. Toward the end of our evening, just a little before six, Lilly Pulitzer and her mother, the Pink Chanel Suit were ushered to a corner table. They were escorted by Miss Lucy's Lady with the Alligator Purse. Miss Lucy's Lady wore a hat very much like the hat perched on the head of the Pink Chanel Suit. Lilly Pulitzer's hair wasn't going to fit under a Pink Chanel Suit sort of hat. At least not that particular evening.

A few minutes after the seating, questions about the menu were delivered into thin air. The waiter, who wasn't really a waiter was running for the hills. The waiter who was not the Fake Waiter appeared about sixty seconds after the departure of the really well trained imposter. 

Elizabeth: Mom. What's wrong with that lady's face?

Mom:    Which lady, sweetheart, there are three ladies faces over there.

Elizabeth:    The Alligator Purse Lady.

Mom:    Too much botox in the early botox years.

Elizabeth:    Too much what?

Mom:    Bo oh oh oh oh Tox. The stuff they put in your face to keep it from ever moving again. A little shot of the plague with fairly frequent boosters will freeze your face in its most current condition. 

Elizabeth:    And her lips?

Mom:    Don't go there. I'm warning you. Do not go there.

Elizabeth:    Mom. What happened to the Alligator Purse Lady's lips?

Mom:    Sigh. Those aren't lips anymore, sweetie. They're face boobs.

Elizabeth:    What?!!

Mom:    Think it through.

Elizabeth:  .....  I think I have to go to the bathroom. 

Mom:    hisssss... Elizabeth, there is no possible route to the bathroom that will take you past that table. 

The Alligator Purse Lips were a harbinger; just the first strong gusts announcing the coming of the extraordinary, possibly every night storm. 

I paid the check, thanked the Fake Waiter behind the bar profusely and stepped into the light. Not much going on in the parking lot. I almost went back to check the footwear on at least Pink Chanel Suit because that demands kitten heels at the very least. I got in the car instead and drove us home.

Two hours later I looked around for my phone. This is not unusual. I frequently lose my phone and if the ringer is on and Elizabeth is home, she calls the phone and it comes running, leaps right in to my hands.

If the phone is on vibrate and not in the immediate vicinity I have to use the computer to call the phone and that has always worked out with the exception of the two times the phone was not actually in the house.

At 8:30 I was starting to panic. I knew the phone was silenced so we didn't bother with Elizabeth's phone. It hadn't occurred to me at all to Find My Phone from the Mac but Elizabeth decided to call the phone and see what happened.

Elizabeth:    Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes. Ok. Thanks.

Mom:        What?! 

Elizabeth:    You left your car on the seat at the Kittle House.

Mom:        How much do I have to pay you to fetch it?

Elizabeth:    You don't have that much money and you never will.

Mom:        So it's like that, is it?

Elizabeth:    But I'll go with you. I'll go with you and you can run in and get it from the front desk.

Mom:        Will you drive the getaway car?

Elizabeth:    Nope.

Mom:        OK, get in. Let's go. This is not going to be even remotely painful. I assure you. 

At the end of the long dark drive, there were long dark cars pulling up to the portico. Lots of Alligator Purses and Pink Chanel Suits got out but Lilly Pulitzer is not evening wear. In the 'parking lot' (front field?), side by side, row by row waited the long dark cars. Some were occupied, some had occupants wandering about. Not a single valet in sight, assumption being, you bring your own.

A distressingly expensive vehicle was pulled up in front of the portico, its driver just getting out when The Fake Waiter came running out the front door... mumble mumble, took the keys, showed the man through the door. Forty seconds later he parked that car between two dark corridors like buttah. 

I pulled up to the portico.

Mom.

What.

Mom. We drive a Toyota.

Yep. We do. I believe there is another Toyota just over there. 

Mom. That's the staff lot.

Hmmm... Kittle House staff are very smart people. 

Mom. This is embarrassing. What if that guy runs back out here and tries to grab our car?!

Hmmm... Don't really think that's going to happen.

I got out of the car, left it running, and ran through a front door the size of - well - the size was a little alarming and why hadn't I noticed in plain daylight? In the very Inn-ly foyer I addressed the woman behind the desk. 

You have my phone?

I do?

I believe so. My daughter called and was told it had been left on a chair. 

Hmmm... oh. Wait! Is this it?

Yes - reaching my hand out - 

Wait - pulling the phone out of reach - - - ahem. cough. And your name is...?

Glare. Bring up the emergency information. Check. A-  Am I right? 

Glare. Yes. Answer another. Who is your in case of emergency contact?

Crap. Well, I hope like hell it's Father of Elizabeth. If not, we may have a problem.

Glare. It is not Father of Elizabeth. Try again. 

Male or female?

Really? You need hints?

Lucia!

Nope. One more try.

And then what?

And then it's not your phone. 

Give me a second, please... reaching across the desk for the land line. Dialing my own damn phone number...

Buzz buzz buzz 

Well, aren't you going to answer it? 

It says the Kittle House is calling.

Answer. The. Phone. Please. (you are fucking with me. why are you fucking with me?)

Hello?

Hello. Now give me my phone. 

I do a great 'pivot on one heel and stalk out the door'. 

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. There is a line of three or four large dark vehicles pulled up behind my dirty red RAV4. There is no sign of Elizabeth who was supposed to move the car if this happened. 

I stalk to the driver's side door. No Elizabeth. OK. I'll just get in and get out of the way. As I pulled forward I heard a whisper from the floor directly behind me.

Mom? Mom, is that you?

Elizabeth, WHAT is wrong with you?! 

Mom. One of those guys was wearing a tux. 

And?

You have holes in your shirt and I'm too booby to be here.

This is why you're hiding on the floor of the backseat?

Yes.

Elizabeth, they are air vents. I have air vents in the back of my shirt, where they are definitely required and you, you! Dude, all I can say is, did you SEE THE FACE BOOBS ON THAT ALLIGATOR PURSE?!!!

I have a nearly overwhelming urge to hang out in this bar one night

I'll ask for three New York Sours, drink them one after the other and then stagger on home. 

Does that even count?!

Sometime back in the late eighties, IRS Agents would do literally anything to retrieve unpaid taxes, even before an audit. I hadn't learned to screen calls yet. Nobody had learned to screen calls, at least not with any sort of regularity. I still answered every call but I got to a point when I wouldn't go anywhere near a phone other than to make an outbound call.

When enough intelligence was built into phones to provide the name of the caller, if available, it was easier to screen. I still won't take a call from a number or name I don't recognize unless I'm truly expecting a call from a yet to be labeled number and I surely will not take a call if it looks suspicious. Leave a message. If you're relevant to me I'll call you back.

For example, a number identified as United Healthcare just called. Why? I'm not insured by United Healthcare at the moment. Whomever or whatever that is, needs to leave a message and then maybe. Just maybe. 

I won't take a call if I'm avoiding you either. Case and point: My accountant calls. Actually, the accountant who owns the good sized firm that is handling my taxes, specifically the egregiously FUBARed 2016 return left a message I refused to even look at. I refused to even look at the transcript, which is RIGHT THERE in the voicemail app. Good god almighty, Alecto. 

My son explained a while ago, that if the IRS really did have enough evidence of back taxes owed, they really want it which means they really do have to work with you if they're going to get it without garnishing your entire paycheck. If they garnish your entire paycheck, they WILL have your attention and then a different sort of thing generally happens. You get an IRS case worker who goes through the last year or two (I really don't know how many) of bank statements, determines what your living expenses really need to be and then tells you how many monthly payments you're going to make and for how long. They'll make a deal, I am informed, that if you just turn over the contents of any 401k or equivalent that happens to be in your name, if it's enough, will give you amnesty from the balance. 

Two things wrong with this.

1. Technically they are not permitted to seize a bonafide retirement account. 
2. The penalties for early withdrawal are astronomical. If they wipe you out, they may come back for the withdrawal penalties. 

This doesn't mean they can't talk you into it but it's not a good idea.

That might sound terrifying, but the retrieval method has come a long way since the late eighties and a long way from the late nineties. By the time the late nineties rolled around the IRS had been spanked a few times. Given the articles that popped up after a couple of key words, it looks like psychiatrists, not even psychologists, actual Shrinks with MDs or even PsyDs started publishing trauma articles. And here is what happens to your customer when... I'm guessing that blew the hell up.

This is great evidence of survival, but. There's apparently a lot of but. 

I don't recall the year, but I lived on the farm in Oxford with Husband and Sun Numbah Ones. Lucia wasn't born until 1991 so my guess is anytime between '87 and '89. I have a memory of wondering how the hell I was going to pay for diapers. 

Here's the picture:

Two young people struggling to pay the mortgage on a farm (that is long story and falls into the category of poor choices, even if the intention sort of made sense at the time), feed their child and themselves, keep two vehicles running and insured, the lights on and oil in the tank. We did not have medical insurance until I went to work at the computer place and that didn't happen until the very end of the decade.

Even before the agent, that was just a bit stressful.

The household income was contributed by two two adults doing their damned best:

1. The cash I brought in as a housecleaner in Fairfield County. In 1987 I discovered that if I cleaned someone's house and left it in the agreed upon state, said someone would give me $50 in cash. I traveled with my own supplies, vacuum, bucket, and mop. If I believed I could clean a house in two hours, I took the client on. I cleaned a lot of houses, but, even with a decent and pretty much reliable stream of cash, I couldn't have carried it all. Not yet.
   
   
2. The husband was an Industrial Design consultant. He was (still is) a very good Industrial Designer. He was also a Mechanical Engineer. Those two professions generally hate each other but that's probably what kept him in the lighting business. He got the whole package done without a battle. 
   
   I don't recall the 1988 hourly rate but it was enough, in conjunction with the cash, to keep the household afloat. Mostly.
   
   In order to bill a client, at least at that point, for every hour billed there had to be documented evidence to back up the invoice. If I had to guess, I'd say he managed to get about 75% of it accurately documented but what he failed to do on a timely basis, was get the Net 30 invoices out the door. If you submit ten invoices at once to any client, they aren't going to be happy about paying it all at once even if they've been receiving the product on time. 
   
   Sometimes our checking account was dead empty. 
   
   On my knees in the driveway I'm reaching under the seat of both cars for quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. I need to buy formula. I was hungry, we were all hungry. This has happened twice in my life, but that was the worst. In retrospect, I cannot imagine why we didn't reach out for help. Maybe because we'd already had to do it once and couldn't bear a second ask. Nobody ever said this was going to be easy.  

I paid taxes on a good part of the mostly cash income. I recall very distinctly, writing the quarterly checks. I think it was easy for me at that point because for every dollar, a significant percentage was going to the IRS one way or another. 

In the spring, the IRS wanted a reconciliation. In the spring, both income streams came together. Totaled and reconciled, at least one year we owed a lot of money. We had no way to pay it, at least not in one lump sum.

The IRS wanted one lump sum. Right now. Not in two months or three months, they wanted it right now. 

Doing the math, looking at the bank account, they must have believed it was buried in mason jars in the back yard. This was even before collection agencies started using tactics which involved you closing out your retirement account(s), and/or: Isn't there anyone from whom you can ask to the borrow the money? A family member? Christ, no. Also, at that point, the idea of having a retirement fund or even an education fund was beyond the scope of imagination. We had literally nothing but the house which was also in my mother's and his father's names. That's how we managed to get a variable rate mortgage for a farm purchased for 190k (why, Alecto, Why?!!!).  

For some reason, I took the calls. Maybe that poor man had already gotten to a point where he could not answer the phone; I don't really remember. I remember answering the phone. There was at least one IRS call a day and here is a sample transcript:

IRS Demon:    Mrs Alecto, you need to pay us now.

Mrs Alecto:    Demon, I don't have any money. I mean, literally, I don't have any money.

IRS Demon:    Then we're going to have to levy your house.

Mrs. Alecto:    What does that even mean?

IRS Demon:    Mrs. Alecto, it means we're going seize the house.

Mrs. Alecto:    But, Demon, the house doesn't have any equity yet. I don't think the bank will let you take it.

IRS Demon:    Mrs. Alecto, not even can we take it but we will take it and you will have nowhere to live. You will have to keep paying the bank.

Mrs. Alecto:    .....

IRS Demon:    But we'll start with your vehicles. They are not owned by the bank.

Mrs. Alecto:    (now in a dead panic, barely able to speak) Demon, if you take our cars, how will we get to work? We won't make any money and then you don't get any taxes. I don't understand.

IRS Demon:    That is not my problem, it's yours.

Mrs. Alecto:    Demon. I have a baby; he needs to eat, he needs diapers, he needs to go to the doctor when he's sick. 

IRS Demon:    Again, not my problem, yours.

Mrs. Alecto:    Demon, I don't have it. I can't give you something I don't have.

IRS Demon:    I'll call again tomorrow and see if you've gotten anywhere.

Every day, at least once a day, sometimes twice, this conversation took place. It took place until the day I could no longer answer the phone. That took a while. I'm a glutton for punishment.

I don't recall offhand how we got through that, but clearly, we got through that. Later, when I went to work at The Castle, my paycheck was garnished until I'd paid my ex-husband's state tax debt. It didn't matter that we were separated and as good as divorced, we were not divorced and remained legally married until December, 1998. We divorced because I wanted to remarry. We stayed married because that was the only way I could insure him. Note the, you first, me last behavior on my part. Another one of those poor choices made from a sense of obligation, helplessness, and guilt. 

I'm pretty sure there's more but that first set of interactions slammed me into another universe; a universe where the specter of the all powerful Citadel of Demons could do anything they wanted, even if it involved causing a homeless family and possibly dead child.

I don't care if your kid eats, lady.

The years rolled by. I filed as early as possible every year. I had far more withheld than necessary but the year I got a $3,500 refund was the year I decided to stop being an interest free bank. I changed my electives. When David the CPA came along, he did the taxes, I looked away, still fearful that something would happen and the Demon would be back. 

And then the world came crashing down. In April of 2014 I tried to file taxes for 2013 which was a pain in the ass because I had retrieve the dollars paid to the state of New York (where I worked in 2013) before I could pay the state of Connecticut where I lived. I logged onto Turbotax, got the entire thing worked out, got ready to pay the IRS taxes owed, and clicked SUBMIT.

I'm sorry, this social security number has already been used to file. 

White noise.

Between 2013 and 2015, government spending was periodically suspended, frozen, shut down, limited to life support. In April of 2014 there was no way I could get a human being on an IRS phone. I remember sitting at my desk, tears running down my face, dialing and redialing, listening for a possible option for reporting fraud. It's what you're supposed to do. I do remember getting into a queue at one point. I sat on hold for twenty minutes and was disconnected. I stopped breathing.

Turbotax allowed me to pick the: I'll file properly in October option and accept the payment of the expected tax debt. But it would not let me file. It would not let me file in New York to retrieve the money and there wasn't anything for me to do with CT if I couldn't get the funds from NY. 

One of the tax people at TheGasCompany told me to walk into the IRS office in Danbury. Just walk in there, he said. Walk in there and tell them what happened.

I could not. I got as close as two or three blocks away, turned around, and went back to my desk. I thought, I'll handle this in October.

I did not. I thought, I'll handle this in April when I file for 2015. 

I did not. 

How can I file for 2014 if I have not filed for 2013? (well, yeah, you can and you should).

In 2016 I was a 1099 contractor. I did not make quarterly payments. Why not? Because I was frozen. I'll deal with this in 2017 when I make the massive 2016 payment. 

April came and went. 

This snowballed. Of course it did. It all snowballed until I decided it was time to stop paying the mortgage, put the key on the kitchen table, and walk out the door. That's not how I did it, and I did it in the best possible way but I wasn't even remotely clean.

I recall paying off a debt that had gone to collection shortly after my divorce. I realized that if I kept making monthly payments, the debt would never go away because the minimum payment on what looked like an insurmountable debt covered the interest. I had two of these from the marriage, one half the size of the other. I let them both go to collection where the interest stops, an agreement is made with the agency and the debt can be paid off. It can also be negotiated down to as little as 50%. I got David to make a 10k payment which eliminated a 20k debt.

At the end of the year I received tax advice. The 10k of forgiven debt was taxable as income. Taxable as SUPPLEMENTAL income. WTH? I owed the Federal Government 4k which I suppose was still better than 10 or even 20k but if I could have paid the debt in the first place, we wouldn't be here. What makes you think I can pay the 4k any more than I could have paid the original debt? 

IRS: Not my problem.

I paid it. It hurt. A Lot. 

The Exposure on the Weston property in 2018:

• Purchase Price:                700k (that was for a bloody ranch in Weston in 2005)
• First Mortgage balance:    288k
• HELOC balance                 288k (I don't know why they were the same by the time I got to this place)
• Property Value:                350k at best
• Total Mortgage:                576k
• Deficit:                           (226k)

Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck. In 13 years, it never came anywhere near close to the original price tag. And that HELOC? How did that HELOC get so big? A down payment of 140k was required at purchase. I had it. I sold the house in Stamford and I had it. Not all of it was mine, but most of it. David had very little. His wife and kids had enough, barely. Child support and alimony will require 2/3 of your Net Income. This is fair and reasonable. However, if the household is not left with enough to cover expenses, the HELOC gets used.

Don't worry, we'll pay it all off when the alimony and child support are over. 

Also, did you know that when you refinance a piece of property... oh, never mind. 

A trail of poor choices. 

The net result is that the first mortgage was satisfied and the HELOC took the 62k and forgave the remaining 226k. 'Forgave' was not the operative word and I do wonder about this. I think the word was: Cleared. I don't know if those are the same things. Here is what I do know:

The tax debt on 226k of what the IRS considers supplemental income is approximately 90.4k

And as my real estate attorney put it, if you can't make the mortgage payments, I'm not sure how they envision you paying a nearly six figure tax debt. Not relevant. 

Did you know the word 'indigent' is used to describe a person who's debts outweigh their assets? It's not as simple as that but that is what it comes down to. I recall negotiating with a collection agency who insisted on $600 a month. I just laughed.

I cannot give you what I don't have.

Then we will serve papers and take you to court and you will have to hire an attorney. 

I can't afford an attorney.

Then what will you do?

I will come to court with my financial documents and speak for myself. I don't really have an option.

Well, you have an income so the court will order you to make payments.

How?

Based on a percentage of your income.

OK. What would that be?

Hmmm... $146 a month.

Awesome! So to avoid your own court fees and get better than that, maybe you'll accept my original offer of $200 a month.

Grrrr...

I set up monthly recurring payments and never took another collection call. I stopped answering the phone at all unless I was very, very sure who was calling. You can leave a message if you want me that badly.

I stopped accepting certified mail. You don't actually have to accept it. 

By the time I called my brother in 2018 I was a walking disaster. It was all of the above, it was much, much more but all of the above had some bearing on my choices.

I explained.

Today there is a plan in place to get out from all of this. As my brother reminds me: Winston Churchill said, if you find yourself in hell, just keep walking. 

I signed a POA which allowed the accounting firm to reach out and grab all the information I couldn't provide. They left me alone and went to work. Then it came time to file for 2016 and there's a game I have to play. The game is called Scavenger Hunt.

It doesn't have to be hard, or even bad, to go through a year of bank statements and highlight anything that could possibly be a business expense. You just order up the archived statements and get to work. When you're done, you send them back to the accounting firm.

When the first request hit my inbox in July or August, looking for this information to file on October 15, I never opened the email. I knew what they wanted but for some reason, I couldn't do it.

When the second request came, I did the same. I never deleted them, I just left them unread.

When the phone call finally came from the owner, guy is nice as hell, I let it go to voicemail and never looked at the transcript. I vomited into the kitchen sink instead.  

When the email came from my brother, I left it unread. 

When the phone call came from my brother, I answered.

Two days prior, I'd ordered the bank statements. I promised that within 3 days of receipt, I would be done. We agreed that he would call back next week. I agreed that this was a good plan. 

The bank statements are late, I did not understand how to properly make the request (well it LET me select 2016). I have made a verbal request. I will go on the scavenger hunt. Somehow I've gotten this far and I expect I'll get the rest of the way. 

There is an 'after the filing' plan as well. I'll face that when it gets here but it's where the term indigent came into play. 

He thought I'd be upset about the word. I laughed and laughed and laughed and thought about the Demon from the late 80s. 

I, said I, into the phone one evening, am delighted to be indigent. 

He was right, you know. I don't know any other way to get through a ring of fire other than to push through. Reminds me a little bit of childbirth. When it is time to push, there is an odd sensation as the baby enters the birth canal. It's called the ring of fire and I remember very clearly being told over and over again throughout my pregnancy, that when I came to the ring of fire, I must push right into it as hard as I could. When I came to the ring of fire I pushed right into it. It was a mighty push that brought my son into the world.

Boom! A 7 pound, 16 days late baby boy. Just like that.

Lucia exited on her own (that is some freaky shit).

Elizabeth was the recipient of a mother with an epidural. Push, ordered my doctor (mother of five, she has the right), PUSH DAMMIT!

I don't want to.

Do you, or do you not want a baby? (not the first time she'd asked that question)

Sigh. OK. 

It didn't take much effort but my labors were too fast for that epidural to have worn off as much as she would have liked. Elizabeth emerged with grace anyway. My body had learned how to do this.

But the first time? The first time I went through that ring of fire I felt more powerful than I ever had. Granted, I was 22, but still. I have the evidence, 33 year old evidence that clearly indicates there is a way through. 

So does it count? Does this shit that happens to us in the formative years of all stages of life count as life-altering trauma? I don't know. I don't think the Demon can take the entire hit for this. I think there had to be a chink in the wall for the Demon to claw his way through. 

So does it count? Do you go after and face the Demon, or do you go deeper, to the source of the chink in the wall? 

I think when you find yourself in hell, you keep walking and you pick up the pieces when the dust has settled. 

The alternative is to blame your poor choices on your parents. You could but it's not helpful. It's not helpful, it's detrimental. We have no power when we have given it away. Blame is one of the easiest ways in which to relieve ourselves of accountability, responsibility, and the only way out alive. 

The Word

I was adjusting blog settings this morning; when prompted by a blank field with a VARCHAR setting higher than the old 256 standard, I wrote the blog description meant to be accessed by search engines. Note, sometimes 256 character limits are there for reasons unrelated to processing space and time. 256 was my goal and I might have made it if I'd had a little more coffee. I'm over by 27 characters and spaces combined. I'll adjust that accordingly at some point.

One of the results of the return of the VARCHAR limit (it's baacckkk) is the innate understanding that culturally we are no longer capable of reading and processing large volumes of text. We are no longer able to consume and analyze text much less process a dialect which is more than ten years old. Refer to No Fear Shakespeare which dumbs down a text that is written in what is most assuredly still Modern English. Not only can't we cope with it, but apparently we can no longer teach it which suggests that the collective inability to process started last generation (OK, probably a lot of generations ago). As a general rule, if you're hanging out here on a regular basis, you've become an outlier. I beat you senseless with metaphors and non-sequiturs on a regular basis.

Speaking of the word 'metaphor', the word slapped me upside the head this morning.

Meta comes from the Greek, meaning: Beyond, After, or Behind. That's incomprehensible even for me, but my relationship with the prefix Meta goes all the way back to 1998, when introduced to OLAP technology which relies heavily on a thing called metadata. With that information securely embedded in the cerebral cortex (yes, for the love of god, that IS the word I meant), it was not a hard step into this definition: Self Referential.

Here is the thing. Our use of the prefix Meta is understood to mean the source of something. So, in the OLAP database world, I might build a dimensional structure to capture statistical information on dogs with six legs. To capture the information I want for reporting I need to very carefully define exactly what data is most important. If I need to reference a date (you bet I do), I create a dimension called Time (or Year or Month, or whatever) and in the dimension called Time I have what I think of as buckets. I name the Years, or the Months, or the Days or Hours. Whatever I most need to know.

This is a nice, clean illustration of some Metadata. Don't worry too much about the Attributes.

In order to capture the data called Intro Date, I need to introduce the dates. If the date 03-25-1996 does not exist as a child of Intro Date, then data referencing 03-25-1996 will be booted out upon data load for not being valid information - unless - your data load is set to create new metadata if a member of the named dimension is missing. This is still metadata. I just changes the method of introduction.

03-25-1996 is by its nature, Metadata. 03-25-1996 is also data but it doesn't tell me anything until I feed it a date value which creates an intersection with every other dimension up there. In other words, I have to introduce a piece of information that represents each of those dimensions. If you're still following, everything you see up there is, one way way or another, Metadata, meaning it holds or refers to data/information. It is not, in itself, useful without data in the bucket. 

So, the prefix Meta is referential. Metaphysics. That's a good one.

Phor (also Greek, go figure, right?) - Originally, or literally, it means 'to bear children'. Extrapolate to 'bear the burden', 'bear witness', 'bearer or possessor'. This list goes on but that should be enough. Take care with most recent definitions: obscure as hell.

OK, I'll leave the pun. But it's true.

Meta = Root
Phor = Reference

Some of you are twitching and foaming at the mouth. 

We are taught in school (I checked, still part of the curriculum) that a metaphor looks like this: The ocean is my mother, or, even harder to choke down: My mother the ocean. I'm not going to tie that back to the definitions above; you're going to have to do it yourselves. I will give the humble simile a mention. This is much easier to digest but not nearly as effective. 

My mother is like the Atlantic ocean. Probably that should be followed up by an explicit why, but a metaphor, not so much. 

The ocean is my mother. The word 'like' has been removed leaving, you, the reader, to decide if you're going to fall down that rabbit hole and possibly experience the ocean-ness of my mother. It is not explicit and I do not have to explain. You have to do the work and pull it out of context. 

My mother the ocean - or - My mother, the ocean (that comma makes a bit of a difference) will most likely (depending on context) mean something entirely other.

Did you that the written Hebrew language does not have vowels? It does here in the U.S., but it does not in Israel.

How do you know what this word is if it looks exactly like that without the vowels? I was incredulous. 

He was incredulous that I had to ask.

You understand the word within the context of the information.

Ohhhhh... damn. 

People new to this country, even if they speak Hebrew fairly well, have a very hard time reading the paper. 

Yeah, I can see that. 

Here is a non-sequitur (definition: a conclusion or statement that does not logically follow from the previous argument or statement)

Note: this could be avoided, the non-sequitur, but sometimes I am intentional with the jump.

Non-sequitur:

[If you have 256 characters, you'd best be clear on what you want to communicate.

I went back to the beginning and thought about my life, which is carbon dated and documented as (OH MY GOD, A METAPHOR! DUCK!) Alecto: CE January 3, 2007. After a while, I wrote. 

"Observations and confessions of a half grown woman at the end of the Industrial Revolution. Filtered through the lens of Hunter S. Thompson, metaphor is on the loose and off its meds; literal humans struggle with the text. Alternatively - Margaret Fuller and Gloria Steinem: A Legacy"]

BOOM! Where the hell did that come from? You were trying to make sense of the wordplay above and you'd forgotten the original point. Or, you skipped over all that stuff and you have not run face first into a non-sequitur; you've simply located the next logical paragraph. 

My brother has the hardest time with this. If he had to read a post, he'd likely throw rocks at my head. Periodically, when I forget myself, I will say something that for him, is out of context. For me, it is not. At my dad's birthday party I thought for a minute he might seize, fall over, and bang his head on something. This paragraph would make his head spin. My dad thinks in a linear and logical framework as well, but he's got a sense of humor. Mostly. My brother is frustrated. It makes him grrrrr. 

Here is something I notice: 

Trying like hell to avoid any broad stroke statements 

My dad is an atheist but he is pissed as hell about it. Sometimes I suspect that my dad feels as if god has let him down, personally or otherwise. When I listen to him talk (which is rare) about the metamorphosis from devout and clearly committed seminary student to raging atheist, this is what I hear:

1. He believed in God. God and the church were truth. God and the church were good and by association, so was he. 
2. So many terrible things in the world, What the hell did he see, specifically?
3. If there really is a God responsible for all this, I don't want anything to do with him (God). What happened to him (my dad), specifically? What was triggered, revealed... I don't know, but I'm feeling this one because he has communicated from a deep well of hurt and anger but not very often; at least not to me. Mostly he seems to keep it at bay but all these years later, probably 62 of them, that same level of emotion burbles down in the deep. 
   
   It is interesting to me that his rage, when verbalized, reminds me very much of my mother's rage, when verbalized, about my father. I don't think I want to touch that one just now; I'll lose us all.
   
   
4. Logically this just does not make sense. I want to believe, I can see that a gazillion other people believe, but this just doesn't make sense. I think it was more than just the inability to make that leap of faith. I think he really put a great deal of thought into the entire thing, the history/stories, organized religion, the evolution of organized religion, the use of organized religion, the seriously fucking clear as fresh ground water burbling up from the spring hypocrisy. These are almost entirely my words based on his words and observation so I could be full of shit. But I don't think so.
5. God just plain fucking let him down in some way that speared him right through the middle.
6. He rode the straight track traveling train straight through to the conclusion that Thomas Aquinas did not come to. The arguments, though, the arguments bear astonishing similarity and I'm not sure he's ever come in contact with The Five Arguments which read very much like a very long geometric theorem. (that's a simile)
7. He cannot abide the virus of human belief in a God that cannot possibly exist. (that was a metaphor)
   
   It gets better.
   
   
8. Except when in the company of people he knows and loves, and more so I think, in the company of people he cares for very deeply, except in these times, he is damned respectful of other people's beliefs. This is not entirely logical and the root has got to be there somewhere.
9. When I was maybe 9? He handed over a very large edition of the King James bible. I don't know where the hell it came from but it's the very large and pretty sort meant to be a family bible. It is not the trade paperback (those are the big ones, the small ones are called Mass Market paperback) shaped bible bound in black leather, worn by a lifetime or two of pretty consistent use. I'd have to take a look, but I'm fairly certain my mother started filling in the family tree on one of the first few pages. I don't think she got beyond my name and I believe she started with her own marriage. Why did he give me the bible? I don't really know. I do recall that he handed it over in the living room of my grandparent's house on Mckinley Avenue in Westwood, so maybe it parked itself there for a time. 
   
   He said a thing though, in that very solum way he has when something is terribly, terribly important. He said I must be respectful of all religious beliefs because the people who had religious beliefs felt very strongly about them and I needed to respect those beliefs. He also said that countries had gone to war over religions; it was that important. Well that fucking stuck with me which is why I started reading what I still think of as the first testament and eventually moved onto what I (of course) call the second testament. I can't help it. There was no one there to explain this shit. 

For no good reason, I memorized the Lord's Prayer. It still appeals to me but not the way you might think. As a child and later young adult, I gotta tell ya, fire and brimstone and smitings aside, the first testament has MUCH better stories. I want to bang my head on a brick wall reading the second. 

This is the story of a very bright man who does have a significant imagination and can follow most things even if he has to ask for an explanation. This is the story of that man who got on the logic train and never really got off. He's a great chess player. He's a fun chess player. He seems to be more interested in the relationship between opponents and how that drives the game than a need to win (which does not stop that shark!). I have no idea what he'd make of that observation and theory. 

NEXT:

My brother is an atheist. Hard stop. I don't think he even got on that train. I think he took one look at it and thought, what the hell even is that? I don't know when that happened because we did not keep a christian god in the house when we were growing up and I did not witness the remainder of his formative years from 1200 miles away. I just discovered it one day for no apparent reason. 

I believe in the collective gods that we create. I believe the collective gods connect us. I believe in a universal truth of some sort. Notice there is no sign of logical argument in those statements. I don't have to explain myself. I don't care if you agree with me but I have gotten to the point where I'll go after people with a broadsword if they're trying to lead me to the ghost of a guy called Jesus of Nazareth, who may or may not be the amalgamation of many different tribes, through many regions, times, and languages. I leave you alone, you don't burn my village down. Got it?

For the record, here is the order of response to an attempt to lead me to a christian god:

1. I will pretend I didn't hear that.
2. I will point blank state that what you're saying is making me uncomfortable.
3. I will ask you to stop. I may or may not use the word please.
4. I skewer you. When skewered, people generally back off. 

I'm not bothered by prayer. I like prayer but mine probably isn't directed the same way yours might be. If I am informed that you will pray for me, if it's genuine, if it has something to do with personal distress, then I am grateful. Anything you put out there goes toward that universal truth.

If you tell me you're going to pray for me, bless your heart, because I need saving or I've pissed you off, I'll either ignore you or hiss... piss off. Because... anything you put out there goes toward a universal truth.

You really think we're powerless? That's a dangerous thought.

And yet...

Two things occurred (well, a lot of things occurred) on the day of my first visit to Golgotha.  

I was with a tour group which was made up of tourists from many different places and many languages were spoken on that bus. If I recall correctly, the tour guide spoke multiple languages. Possibly as many as five. If you can imagine anything beyond the walls of your own world (sometimes that's really hard if you haven't really been out of it), you might imagine that we, the tourists, of many colors, tribes, and languages, might also represent just as many separate religious beliefs.

I know that's hard for some people. I know that's really hard, but try, OK? It's important, you'll miss the point.

There are four major religions represented in the Old City of Jerusalem. They are thought of as 'Quarters', most likely because the members of those tribes live in their assigned quarter of the city. This might surprise you (or be at least somewhat confusing):

The Four Quarters of Jerusalem:

1. Muslim
2. Jewish
3. Armenian 
4. Christian

I put them in that order on purpose. If you look it up you'll see it in aligned in different ways, but not that way (yet. I haven't found it yet). 

For me, the Muslim presence was far greater once out of the central square which is occupied by Israel, shored up by the Western Wall. The divide between Muslim and Jew, regardless of the divide between the physical quarters is painful. Unless, of course, you're fucking oblivious. 

The Christian presence is made up of a couple different things in this order.

1. Oblivious Christian tourists (I'll get to that)
2. The lack of any obvious representation in the quarter, short of tourism (how, exactly, do you present a united Christian front?)
3. The fact that the Stations of the Cross have no respect for modern borders
4. The fact that the Stations of the Cross are respected by all quarters (best I can tell) and left unmolested.

This suggests to me that the Stations of the Cross are much, much bigger than the construct of Christianity which has in common, a terrible brutality. Don't blame that shit on the Catholics. They were invented a bit later. However, if you google 'when was Catholicism invented?' you'll get all kinds of answers I'd file under the heading of 'Fake History' - this is my fucking favorite:

I'll accept the First Council of Nicaea in 325 EC as the seed of many breeds of Christianity, Catholicism included. But the thing is, the biggest religion is only representative of one thing: The biggest source of power. They've had this seat for years! Damn. 

To me, this is representative of the things I find incredibly offensive in Western religions:

So, OK, #45 did not personally invent Fake News. I'd say, stop lying, but apparently we need the lies enough to kill for them. I'd go upstairs and pull out my philosophy and religion texts from the Jesuits if I felt the need to pound my fist, but I don't. For the record, the Jesuits weren't claiming any right to the invention of Christianity, and the history taught at that school made a pretty good argument for the fact that it really did take some time to evolve into what it is today. 

When I think of the Catholic Church, the first thing that comes to mind is The Old Testament. It's sort of a tone thing. Words aside, I hear ya. I also think of The Old Testament when I think of fundamentally fundamental Christian religions. How can you preach the ways and words of the man called Jesus while you're raining down fire, brimstone, and a complete lack of acceptance of anything outside the immediate (which might be a congregation of five and an online minister - WHICH, by the way, is no less relevant than one of the Vatican's churches) doctrine? 

Refer to yesterday's post and dead children. It's a good place to start.

How can you speak of the Sermon on the Mount? That event is SACRED (I'm not actually certain it was an event) in what it means to be a human being the way we say we'd like to be. On the other hand, it's a little creepy. But still. 

How can you discuss care of the least of us all, lepers, and leave your own people dying of a horrible and still incurable virus? Again, to be fair, as far back as I look, in as many cultures, lepers have leprosy due to some moral deficiency and they deserve it too. I got a whole lot to say about Mary Magdalene. The last part would be about the closet in which many children of the current generation are suffocating. PRAY AWAY THE GAY! And all that confusion about whether your penis and or vagina is even remotely relevant. 

I want to note that it is the Christian Quarter, not the Catholic Quarter. I also want to call out the differences between the Christians and the Armenians. Nah. Too easy.

Here are two events. 

1. In the tour group of many different faces, we enter the Cenacle. In multiple languages, our current location is named and described. After the fact, I got an idea that there may have been multiple names and explanations. That room cannot possibly be just about the Last Supper. It can't. A busload of people turned in small circles, trying to make sense of this one bare room. I should note that I was most likely the only American and possibly the only white face. Also, I'd already been to the Western Wall and lost my mind. I was still blowing my nose periodically. 
   
   A group of mostly women, maybe fifteen to eighteen, mostly middle-age, but who can really say, enter the room. It is not a small room but it's not a dining hall either. One long table fit twelve to fifteen comfortably, as I look at the dimensions. I can see that. A group of fifteen to eighteen introduced to the pool of twenty to twenty-five pretty much not likely to be Christians, already occupying the room is a snot load of people. It was crowed in there and that was OK because it was pretty much likely to be crowded everywhere. We were lucky for a bit to have some breathing space.
   
   It would have been fine except for the circle. The religious pilgrims made a large circle, hands held, arms spread out, making the maximum possible circle or taking up the maximum possible space or using up the maximum possible oxygen. This event, no matter which metaphor you choose, is a serious aggression. Don't look so damned innocent. If you've ever even thought about inflicting your religion on another, you have aggressively attempted to steal a part of their soul. Why? Because you're trying to take something away, even if it's total atheism, in order to insert the semen of something completely foreign and generally unwanted. Jesus pretty much did not do this, according to the New Testament (I'm betting he did, though, anybody on a conquest is eventually dangerous). 
   
   Hands held, chins up, eyes closed, mouths open, they prayed to the ceiling. 
   
   I left the room. The tour guide left the room. Thirty seconds later we'd ceded the Cenacle to a group of people I wanted to beat with a stick. 
   
   
2. On the way through Golgotha there are many things to see. The birthplace of Christ was the most egregious. Really? How can you be sure? Hundreds of people in line to receive a small donkey made from palm reed from a priest sitting or squatting in the door of the makeshift hovel. Huh. The room, however, was astonishing. Somewhere I have a photograph of a shaft of light coming through one of the windows maybe thirty feet up; Indiana Jones style. The only problem with the photograph was the small hut off to the right. I wasn't being very accepting. But.
   
   As we went deeper, to our final destination on the Stations of the Cross a communal hum moved through the arches and passageways. It was the murmured voice of a thousand commingled prayers in different voices, different languages, and different interpretations of the same place.
   
   I don't so much recall the cave as thinking, how the hell is that cave all the way down here? I'm having trouble believing that 2,000 years made a cave in a cave or that Golgotha was literally built around it. Golgotha is a rock, people, with BCE reference, I think. 
   
   So, no cave, just a slab of stone, or marble, or something, on the ground. I remember it having a slightly hollowed look as if a body had worn it down over the years but I probably imagined that. 
   
   I remember the man who, based on earlier responses, could not possibly have been Christian, dropping to his knees and weeping. We went down like dominos. 
   
   We touched the stone. We added our own prayers to our own gods in our own way. No one was converted that day. 
   
   Can you see it? Can you see what happened there? 
   
   The answer: people found God, is grossly inaccurate. 

I believe in a universal truth and that's my evidence (not that I ever asked to have evidence) and I really don't think its name is God. Not like that. Yahweh. I can understand Yahweh a little bit. Even more, I can understand YHVH. I recognize the part of faith that causes G_D. 

We cannot know their face. We cannot look upon their face, we cannot speak their name. To do so would inherently lessen their power and we need that power. 

Even me. Maybe even especially me. I have no name for what I think of as the universal truth, just a description. I don't think of the universal truth as even remote person like. That wouldn't make sense to me and it surely does not need to make sense to you (notice I keep saying that?). 

And while I have no name, no face, have anthropomorphized nothing, I still have a belief system which is largely derived from the Judeo-Christian box in which I was raised. I am missing some things.

I believe entirely in free will. I can't even wrap my head around the concept of fate. Organized religion, as a whole, scares the shit out of me. Not God, people. I believe the meek will be doormats their entire lives, at the end, wondering how the hell this could have happened. I don't confuse meek with quiet, or gentle, or even passive and I have a feeling that particular translation got lost in the wash. Let's try this: the meek shall inherit the earth. the compassionate shall minister to the earth; the compassionate shall steward the earth. It's just a thought.

Christianity needs very much for its people to be meek enough to at least follow directions.

John 1:1 In the beginning was The Word...

The explosion called the birth of the universe... The Word is a sound.

The Word might be the sound of your own heartbeat...

perhaps the holiest sound of all. 

 

If God had a name what would it be?
And would you call it to his face?
If you were faced with Him in all His glory
What would you ask if you had just one question?

 

And yeah, yeah, God is great
Yeah, yeah, God is good
And yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah

 

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Tryin' to make his way home?

 

If God had a face what would it look like?
And would you want to see if, seeing meant
That you would have to believe in things like heaven
And in Jesus and the saints, and all the prophets?

 

And yeah, yeah, God is great
Yeah, yeah, God is good
And yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah

 

What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Tryin' to make his way home?

Just tryin' to make his way home
Like back up to heaven all alone
Nobody callin' on the phone
'Cept for the Pope maybe in Rome