The Power of Chocolate Cupcakes

There’s nothing like being robbed on Christmas Eve to get you in the holiday spirit!

I was in a nearby shoe shop buying some last minute gifts for my two oldest girls. (Is it just me, or do all mothers feel like their kids won’t get enough for Christmas?) I was the only customer in the store, so I decided it was okay to set my purse down while I shopped. A few minutes later, an attractive young woman joined me. She distracted me with questions about shoes while her friend, who I never saw, lifted my wallet.

Both girls ran out of the store before I even realized what had happened. They were out of sight by the time I did.

The responses to this unfortunate event ran the gambit with every personality of the DISC model represented.

One of the officers said, “It’s a good thing it was just your wallet, and not your keys.” I agreed that that wouldn’t have been good at all.

The other officer said, “It’s a good thing they didn’t hold a gun to her head is more like it.” He was looking at his partner, so I didn’t respond.

My husband arrived and stayed just long enough to inquire about my state of mind before taking to the streets in search of the thieves.

The storeowner kept offering me the box of cookies she found consolation in, insisting they would make me feel better. To tell her that baking, not eating, cookies was what I needed right then would have probably left her as perplexed as the second officer was by the first’s comment.

Everything was in my wallet. My license, credit cards, checks, membership cards, and, things I couldn’t remember I had (but would miss when I did), were all gone. But, like the wallet itself, these things could all be replaced. The $400 cash I had just gone to the bank for was more regrettable. If only I had used that cash at Sam’s just minutes earlier. Then only $160 would be gone. If only I had been satisfied with the gifts I had already gotten for the girls. Then nothing would be gone.

Except for a nail technician from a nearby shop who said the pair went in for manicures but refused to wait, my husband’s search was unrevealing. Upon hearing this, I thought: “I can’t even remember when I last had a manicure!”

I wanted to get on my computer right then and write out my anger and bitterness, but my son made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“Let’s make chocolate cupcakes, mom.”

Well, yes!!!

Okay, being robbed on Christmas Eve might not be just the thing to get you into the holiday spirit, but it certainly wasn’t going to ruin mine.

In fact, I was determined to somehow make sense of what had happened. And what I realized was this:

We process more cautiously after getting robbed, and feel dutiful in telling everyone the details of what happened, “so it doesn’t happen to you”. But reality is, the feelings of upset, regret, anger, and fear subside before your new checks arrive in the mail. Thieves continue to steal with the same tenacity you expressed trying to find the perfect replacement wallet to hold all the replacement junk you’ve accumulated. The cycle continues. And why wouldn’t it?

Nothing really changes because we accept the same. We hide behind words like “victim” and “underprivileged” when “powerful” is what we really are. Within us all is the power to change what is wrong, whether we know it or not. Only when the burden of sharing positive behavior is stronger than acceptance of negative behavior can we realize “powerful”.

I can’t help but think my realizations were influenced by the comment of someone close to me. Of my unfortunate Christmas Eve saga, she said, “I would feel like I was wasting my time trying to help all those kids if I were in your shoes.”

This response is the classic personality trait for a word that begins with the letter "I", only this "I" has nothing to do with the DISC model.

There’s nothing like baking chocolate cupcakes on Christmas Eve to get your mind right!

Pride and Punishment

Here in New Orleans, many of us parents whose kids go to school together have taken to having dual or group birthday parties (much to the chagrin of the kiddy party establishments). In the olden days, the domino effect of one child beginning the school year with a birthday party at The Monkey Room would have you schlepping kids there every weekend until school let out for summer. Figure my 4 kids times 2-3 classes of 12-16 kids in each's grade times 1 gift per child times 2 weekend days times 4 weekends a month.

Phew! I'm horrible at math but even I know that that computes to far more juice boxes than cocktails.

Wine, o, wine, where art thou?!

(I promise I am getting around to the RsD2 cake!)

This year my son agreed to have a dual birthday party with another boy in his grade. I was thrilled, but a little apprehensive since the other boy's mom suggested it. Last year, we scheduled each our son's birthday parties on the same day, at the same time, but at different places.

It was totally my fault. She'd left a message on my answering machine months before placing dibs on the date. I simply forgot. I felt remiss, of course, and did my best to convey my regret. I even offered to change my date. She refused but maintained her discontentment with me all the same.

And, now after a year she was... what?

Reaching out, I decided. So, I threw out the "apprehensive" and doubled the "thrilled." Party on!

She was to handle most of the party preparations, including the invitations, party favors, and food. I was to host the party, get the drinks and balloons, and supply the cake.

The cake! Alas, the creation of R2D2!

R2D2 was well beyond my level of expertise, but I just couldn't resist the challenge. I knew this cake would make my son happy. Very happy! And it would make up for the birthday party quagmire I'd convinced myself I needed to make up for.

Hour after hour, after hour... and more hours went by, and I was still making the cake. Sometime between hour 12 and 13 my once perceived therapeutic cake-making time turned into something else.

Around midnight the telephone rang. It was the other boy's mom. She couldn't remember if she'd told me that she'd extended the invitation to the other classes. Including siblings. She was sorry, of course, for calling so late the night before, oops! the day of, the party with the news, but she'd simply forgotten.

I'm even more horrible at math at midnight the night before, oops! the day of, the party after 16 hours of what I'd conceded was no more than self-induced punishment, but I knew that that news computed to far more kids than R2D2 could feed. I mean, we're talking Catholics here!

I was out of energy, out of ideas, and out of fondant! But I have a reputation to protect. And now my pride was wounded. I couldn't stop now, right? Hell to the no!

I made a "satellite cake", The Light Saber, just as the other boy's mom graciously suggested, but maintained my discontentment with her all the same.

When the cakes were brought out everyone drew closer. The longer they sat on the table the more the warm sun softened the icing over them both. The huge smile on my son's face as he stood behind R2D2 for pictures, and all the kids oooing and ahhhing over it was humbling. I couldn't cut and distribute pieces fast enough.

After all that time and effort, there was nothing left of either one of those cakes to keep for later, and I was thrilled! I felt so lucky to get rid of it all.

The Cycle of Cake-Makers

Growing up, my mother made the birthday cakes for my brother, sister and I, provided that a birthday was remembered and that we had gas and electricity at the time. She didn't enjoy cooking or baking. This was just her thing to do. Any off-brand cake mix in a box with the coordinating frosting in a can would do. In her haste to get it over with she'd turn it out of the pan before it was cool enough and it would crack. Then, she'd frost it while it was still warm and the frosting would melt into puddle around the cake. "It ain't pretty, but it all eats," she'd say.

Although my dad had strong opinions about what made for a good meal, he never complained about my mother's lopsided and lumpy cakes. He knew better. "It all eats," he'd say in response to our looks of disappointment over our birthday cakes.

Years later, my dad developed a heart condition that prevented him from preforming his duties as a security guard. Not one to just sit around and do nothing, he decided to take cake decorating classes. It was a far stretch from his more masculine profession, but he embraced it with fervor. He and my mother became a cake-making team. She'd bake and he'd decorate. Only then did he complain about her cakes. "You gotta have patience," he'd say. Eventually, he got her to stop cracking the layers but she never would invest more than 30 minutes total on preparing and baking. It took him hours, sometimes an entire day, to decorate her cake made of off-brand cake mix in a box. The cakes were beautiful, but they lacked that certain feeling of specialness a cake should evoke at a celebration.

Now that I'm grown, I bake the birthday cakes for my children. Like my mother, it's my thing to do. However, it's not just my thing. Like my dad, I also decorate the cakes. I've made a flower, a dirt track, a doll, an Elmo, a Telletubby (Po), a Barney, a round, a square, an oval, and shapes that don't have names featuring characters my kids can't even remember the names of. If they request it, I make it. I even made an ice cream volcano cake covered in fondant once. And if you think that's no big deal, try doing it, and then transporting it to the party 10 miles away, in August! In Louisiana!

Making my kids' birthday cakes is also my thing to do because I love doing it! The cakes may not come out perfect, but they know that I gave it my best and that their birthday is pretty special to me.

The flip flop cake is my most recent birthday creation. I affectionately made it for my second child, Chloe, who turned 9. Happy Birthday, Lola!

Slaving Over Something You Love Makes It Taste Better

 I absolutely LOVE homemade sugar cookies with almond-flavored glazed icing.  I wouldn't spend two days preparing the dough to make them and one hour working them off on the treadmill otherwise.  The store-bought, break-n-bake sugar cookies, although significantly easier to make, are simply not worth the calories. I would just as soon go without. 

I can't help that I love the homemade sugar cookies better. I just do. Period. I don't love them because I slave over them. I slave other them because I love them, and because no other kind will satisfy l'envie (the urge/craving) for sugar cookies. Slaving over something you love makes it taste better.  

In August 2005, my family was displaced by Hurricane Katrina. My husband and I and our four children sought refuge in the most sensible of places, the place one expects to find solace in their time of need: Home. But for me going home had quite the opposite effect. I found myself driving through Coonville, the neighborhood I'd grown up in, despite my better judgement. It was even more unsafe than when I'd lived there all those years ago, and being there conjured daunting, and unescapable memories.

Four months after the hurricane, my family and I were able to return to New Orleans. I was eager to bury the uninvited, most unwelcome memories of the darkest time of my life. But this was not to be. Words I could never seem to find but always knew needed to be written pulsed through my fingertips and onto the keys of my computer. I could no more stop them than I could prefer store-bought sugar cookies to my homemade. L'envie to transform my thorns were irrepressible.  Finally, I understood why I'd made it out. 

Thorns of Inspiration is my story of redemption, and Liberation through Education my way of inspiring the redemption of other children. I can't help that I was dealt a bad hand. I just was. 

I didn't slave over Thorns of Inspiration because I loved writing about my memories. I wrote about my memories because I was a slave to them, and because doing so would liberate me, dispel preconceptions and inspire others. 

I slave over Liberation through Education because it is my passion and because it inspires others. I love every minute of it. And slaving over something you love makes it taste so much better.

MEDIA LINKS:

A little 411 about Liberation through Education: http://www.nola38.com/pages/video/?autoStart=true&topVideoCatNo=default&clipId=3771300

Juvenile Violence Spawns Interest in Liberation through Education's Programs: http://www.abc26.com/video/?autoStart=true&topVideoCatNo=default&clipId=3782095

The Sweet Taste of Pralines

Sugar, butter, and condensed milk - three basic ingredients that when combined and placed over medium heat can yield either the smoothest and sweetest of treats or a complete disaster.  (If you think that "complete disaster" is a rather dramatic way of referring to failed pralines, then you have either never had them, or else you are lacking a sweet tooth that aches for them!) 

There are thousands of recipes for pralines, each varying in ingredients, cook times and methods.  A variety of milks and sugars may be used and nuts are optional. Some even go so far as to recommend the type of pot and stirring utensil to use.  

There is really no wrong recipe, but there is also no full proof one. Praline-making takes practice and patience no matter the recipe, pot or spoon.  It also takes persistence. Chances are you won't get it right the first time, which is totally normal.  If you're really committed to making pralines you need only to determine your mistake and try again. It may be that your recipe needs to be tweaked, or your cooking time adjusted.  The more you experiment the more you realize that praline-making is about timing, strategy and the weather, of course. You must stir continuously, even when your arm gets tired and your fingers begin to cramp, maintaining a keen eye for the changes your efforts produce. If you allow your woes to eclipse your anticipated reward, you will end up with sticky clusters that won't "turn," essentially Pralineless! 

Keep at it, stir, evaluate, and repeat. Think ahead.  Be ready. Lay out the wax paper to receive your clusters, have a cup of water nearby in case your pralines begin to turn in the pot. Your sweet tooth is hankering, so work quickly but don't be too hasty.  Be mindful of the things that are out of your control but certainly not uncontrollable, like the weather.  Making pralines takes more time and effort when the weather is damp, and quicker, more decisive action when it's cool.  Keep your mind on the end result, the thing that got you making pralines to begin with: satisfaction for the sweet tooth!

My experimentable, tweakable, irresistible praline recipe:

Pecan Pralines

Ingredients:  4 cups sugar

1 can condensed milk

1 stick butter

1 tsp. vanilla

2 cups pecans

Directions:   Put sugar, condensed milk and butter into a black-bottom pot and bring to a boil; Stir constantly with a wooden spoon; Pour in vanilla and pecans; Bring to a soft ball; (Cook time: 20 minutes, longer in damp weather); Remove from heat and stir until mixture thickens; Drop tablespoonfuls of mixture onto wax paper; Cool and serve.

 Ummmm! The sweet taste of a praline! C'est tres bon!

Thoughts O'Easter Eve

I can't think of a more perfect day than Easter Sunday to post my first blog entry.  I spend the entire day yesterday sifting and beating and creaming.  My need to bake is as ferocious as my need to write.  And the two are not exclusive of each other.   As I bake, I think.  And my thoughts compel me to write. 

As I baked for this festive occasion, my thoughts were about humanity. And about empathy. And about compassion.  I wondered why we as society have come to, or have chosen to continue to (depending on your faith) lack compassion and value for each other as humans. We are never willing to admit that we are insensitive to others, or to the social ills of the world. It is rare that someone says, "Recycling is a waste of time." Enthusiasm for "Going Green" is increasingly verifiable with the push for automotive reform, millions of new online networking websites, and bill pay and email accounts established each year.  Yet there seems to be a shortage of constructive solutions that would extinguish social underdevelopment - the social burdens poverty and dysfunction evoke, and the limitations they produce.  There are islands that are (or should be) designated to THOSE people.  They'll never amount to anything, so why bother.

Is saving the world somehow more posh than saving the lives of human beings? Or is it just easier?

Voila! Mon gateau de Paques!

www.liberationthrougheducation.com