Live, Love, Laugh, Bake

Live, love, laugh, bake
I am not an obsessive type. There are one or two things I’m, shall we say, passionate about. Obsessive sounds so…stalk-y. One is baking. Of course. Creating delicious, sometimes sinfully decadent sweets and seeing how people enjoy them, the creative freedom it gives me is just the best.
My nails. Anyone who knows me knows this.  Every two weeks, without fail, I’m sitting in Sasa’s chair while she does her magic. Are they ridiculously long for someone who spends her days at the keyboard and her weekends in the kitchen?  Perhaps. But I can’t imagine being without them. Plus, it’s my hour of pampering every two weeks. I owe that to myself.
My newest obsession is tattoos. It took awhile to admit this. Tattoos? For a girl raised in the 60’s and 70’s, yea, for someone my age?  What WOULD my mother say!
The first one was small. At the back of my neck. I designed it. T, S, and K intertwined. The words “Bound by Blood” underneath.  Me and my girls, forever bound. It made sense. It’s permanent no matter what, blood ties don’t go away.
Then there was the small Celtic heart on my hip, with MPD in it. Michael. The fiancé. The love of my life. Permanent. Likely the last man I will ever love. My other half, my heart and soulmate.  15 years of him, and a great many more if we’re so blessed.  I always thought it was crazy to tattoo someone’s initials on oneself. But no. Not crazy. It’s a statement. It’s “I love you and will always have you with me”.
Then there was the “Can cosúil go bhfuil aon duine ag éisteacht” with all shamrocks and stuff. “Sing like no one is listening”. Because why not.  It’s the music thing. It’s the Irish thing. It’s me.

“My destiny is riding again” with lavender lilies. My favorite flower, some of my favorite lyrics. Stevie Nicks. Because my destiny is ALWAYS riding, always changing, always getting me where I am meant to be.
And now, the newest. The Baking tattoo by an amazing tattoo artist. I love that I walk into Cliff’s with a drawing, an idea, and they just run with it. I started with this:

And Anthony turned it into this:

And I love it. I told him the handles on the rolling pin had to be red. A tribute to my Nana, who had an old wooden rolling pin (mine is marble but I still have hers somewhere) with red handles. I still have her best recipes, the ones that we were able to con her into actually writing down. Although I still am not quite sure how to decipher 4 “scoops” of sugar. The lavender (“sterling” ) roses, a tip of the hat to my late brother, he loved sterling roses. The wooden spoon and the whisk, Must haves. And Live, Love, Laugh, Bake, because, why not.

I think I’m done with the tattoos now.  My mother, I’m sure, is looking down on me with that disapproving face, I can hear her saying “Oh, Te-RE-esa”…in THAT voice.  That voice haunts me sometimes. But she always did know that I was my own person, a rebel in my own way, so I’m sure she understands. As for my brother, he would have loved it, loved that I’ve found this passion for baking, and am that proud of what I do. He was, after all, a chef. I was on occasion, his sous chef for family dinners, and his baker for the desserts for those dinners. Yea, he’d be all for it.  And I’m ok with that, I’m ok with who I have become, tats and all,  and that’s what really matters.

Comfort Food

Comfort Food

                I think often about dead people. Lately, it’s my mother. I have so many memory flashes of her. I hear her voice sometimes when I open my mouth. It’s frightening how much I really am like her. Whether it’s her trying to break through the walls I had up as a teenager, or loving my kids more than anything in the world,  spilling the final family skeleton, or stoically (if nothing else my mother was the epitome of stoic) accepting the death of my brother, the memories never leave me. I loved her in my way. I hope she knew that somehow.  I understand now that we clashed because we were so very much alike. I hope that I am even half the person she was. Although I cook better than her, and probably bake better too, she did alright. She was good at: meatloaf, mac and cheese (NOT from a box), tuna noodle casserole, brownies, chocolate chip cookies (I learned the trick of refrigerating the dough before baking from her),  and pudding. And the whipped cream to go with it.
My mom made pudding often for us. More often chocolate. Sometimes vanilla or butterscotch.  From a box. If she was feeling really ambitious, she would make whipped cream to go with it. REAL whipped cream. I only later found out that it was actually Chantilly Crème. I had no idea my mom was a gourmet baker. You know, with the sugar, and a touch of vanilla. Yea that Chantilly Crème.  My Nana (who was a fabulous baker, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog), used to make Cornstarch Pudding. THAT was a treat. Serously. So. Good. I have carried on that tradition, and recently passed THAT recipe on to my granddaughter. May she use it in good health. I don’t give my recipes up easily. Occasionally my daughter begs me to make Cornstarch pudding. Usually when she’s having an anxiety attack. Comfort food. Security. Those little things that assure you that life is ok. Everything’s gonna work out.  I made Cornstarch Pudding last night. Chocolate. Because I can and because I have a fiancé who loves his sweets (although I used agave instead of sugar, because I love him that much) I used my mom’s double boiler, the pyrex bowls that she always used, and the parfait dishes that she had since before I can even remember,  because somehow I know if I use these things, it will turn out perfect. Call it superstition, or whatever. It’s comfort knowing that I’m using the same things, doing the same things. Sometimes I can feel her reassuring me, I know I hear the echo of her voice in my mind.  Certain things are just part of my life because of her. Watching the Thanksgiving  parade (no matter that no one’s actually WATCHING it, it HAS to be on), wearing green for St. Pat’s Day (I wore orange once, my father almost disowned me),  "Tammy" (my nickname, I still hear her singing it, just like I hear my father singing along with Nat King Cole), announcing when the first crocus of spring shows it’s face, watching the squirrels in the back yard, so many things she taught me that I didn’t realize she did.

But the pudding and the whipped cream, that’s what assures me that maybe we were closer than I thought, maybe her influence on me was more than I thought. And if that’s so, well, I guess I didn’t turn out so bad after all.

"Tammy"-Debbie Reynolds