An Impromptu Chocolate Cake

On Saturday, I realized suddenly that I couldn't remember ever baking a cake from scratch. I was sure that it would be quite an undertaking, and I thought about making a list of things I'd like to cook someday, a list like my friend Theresa posted on her blog. Later that night, when Matt was out playing frisbee golf with our friend Nate, I was feeling a little restless, and I did not want to do laundry or sort clutter or read a book. I'd had a productive day that included washing the walls, cleaning the kitchen, my own round of frisbee golf, and a three mile jog, so I didn't want to do any work... but I still wanted a little project.

On a whim, I started surfing the Betty Crocker website, thinking I might find an interesting cake recipe, but I was surprised to find out that most of their recipes called for using Betty Crocker cake mix as a base.... Of course they do.

As I searched a little more, I realized that a basic yellow cake recipe actually is pretty basic. It just calls for a few ingredients that I probably could have predicted on my own: flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, shortening or oil, eggs, milk, and vanilla. In fact, everything I needed was already in my kitchen. I found a similarly simple chocolate frosting recipe (confectionery sugar, cocoa, butter, evaporated milk, and vanilla), so I sent Matt to the store for what I was missing for the frosting, and I was on my way.

Even though the recipe and the ingredients were simple, I was still under the impression that this would be complicated. But it wasn't. I didn't even need my KitchenAid mixer. It was easy, and when I tasted my cake batter, I knew it was right.

When I tasted my frosting, I knew that was right, too - but something else happened. In an instant, I felt myself back in my childhood, and I remembered right there my mom's homemade cakes and frosting. I never went around thinking my mom made cakes from scratch when we were kids, but as soon as I tasted that frosting, I knew she did. Maybe I didn't ever even realize what she was doing.

Such a simple little decision I made yesterday, and two great things happened. I realized (once again) that once you just get yourself started, most tasks aren't as daunting as they feel when they are squatting for weeks on end on your to do lists... an important reminder for a master procrastinator.

And, I remembered something great about my mom. I don't have as crystal clear of a memory of my childhood as I wish, but today one taste of homemade chocolate frosting made me remember and realize again how lucky I am.

The Maple Syrup Run

This morning I woke up to a cold, gray, rainy day, which was not exactly what I wanted to see after a long winter in Minnesota and right before I was heading out for my 5K. I put on a pot of coffee and then took my dogs out for a walk to wake up a little bit.

5Ks (not that I have that much experience) are fun in the small town I live in. Matt and I have lived in Faribault for five years now, and many of our friends, students, and colleagues show up to run, volunteer, or cheer each other on. Today's run was at the River Bend Nature Center, and the route passed through a prairie, up several small hills, by the banks of the Straight River, and over a turtle pond (oh, and by the Minnesota Correctional Facility).

I followed Matt's advice and started out slowly, and I was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable I felt. There really weren't any mile markers, so I didn't have any idea how far along I was. I kept count of the number of songs I listened to, thinking that would give me an idea of how far from the end I was... and before I knew it, I could see the end. "Shake It" by Metro Station came on (thanks, Timberwolves Dancers), and I started running faster toward the finish line.

And that was it: 36 minutes and 14 seconds*. No seeing God, no stomach cramps like I remember when we ran the mile at Hyman Fine Elementary School back in Attleboro, no major personal journey milestone. Just another step forward as I try and take back this terrible creep of pounds.



* Only 22 minutes and 3 seconds off world record pace (Tirunesh Dibaba, 2008). Of course, that wasn't cross-country.

Some Days, Teaching is Really Hard

Every morning, I arrive at school about 15 minutes before the bell. One of my students depends on me to get there in time so she can get her math book and get on the bus to our other campus in time for her first period class. Usually I make it; some days, I advise her to start keeping her books elsewhere!

Today, the moment she came around the corner and caught my eye, just as I was unlocking my office door, she started to sob. Her friend, a former boyfriend of hers and a former student at our school, has been struggling with a very serious medical condition that has required multiple brain surgeries, and she had been told that he had taken a turn for the worse.

I held her for a little bit while she cried, and then she gathered her books and went to catch the bus, leaving me a little stunned in her wake.... but I too gathered my books and started my day.

5K and Pancakes, Maybe

On Sunday, I'll be jogging my first 5K since 2006. Back on that day, I literally ran the race cold, having not run anything longer than a mile since I was about 19.

This time, I'm in good shape, but I still haven't run 3.1 miles on the road in a long time... Um, since September 2006, the aforementioned 5K.

So, I've been running a mile or a mile and a half every couple days. Today, I sort of ran 3 miles on the treadmill (sort of = walked a little bit every now and then).

I don't have much to say, but if I put this in writing now, than I have to follow through and show up on Sunday. Then maybe I'll have some nonsense about a personal journey and a post-5K pancake breakfast to blog about.

Broadening the Scope

Well, I'd like to keep this blog a little more often than only when I travel, so I've decided to broaden the scope a little bit. My title "Winding Roads and Close Calls" is still relevant because my goal will always be to focus on experiences in my life that cause me to step out of my comfort zone! Maybe this will simply mean that I will write about all those food pictures I like to upload to my facebook page, but I also hope to write a little bit more about my local adventures in Minnesota, my travels back home to my beloved New England, and my virtual explorations through the books I read, the movies I see, and the plays I attend. Of course, there are those journeys that don't require any travel at all but still move you forward: when a friend pushes you to reconsider your assumptions, when the approaching birthday creates angst and hope, when a day at the office makes you want to scream and laugh, or when a quiet moment at home reminds you to appreciate things just the way they are.

Cortadito Update

Last Sunday, my friend Isabel gave me the most wonderful thank you gift. She bought me a can of Cafe Bustelo and a simple moka pot and taught me how to make cortaditos. All along, I had a Mukka Express to make cappuccinos, but I never realized how close I was to making cortaditos at home.

Isabel started by putting a whole lot of white sugar in a mug. I mean, I knew there was sugar in a cortadito, but it turns out that there is a LOT of sugar in one. When the percolator bubbled up the first bit of coffee, she poured just that first tiny bit into the sugar to make a frosting-like mixture. She said that this step creates the foamy surface of the coffee, and that the Cubans say it has to be the first drips of coffee that you use. On the side, she boiled some milk on the stove. When the coffee was done, she poured it into the sugar and mixed it vigorously to create that foamy surface. She poured a touch of milk into the coffee, leaving that perfect little milk stain on top.

And that was it. So simple. When Isabel was done, she handed me a cortadito; I hadn't had one since last summer in Miami, and hers was perfect. When Isa tasted it, however, she said, "Oh! not sweet enough for me."

And so, every morning since then, I have been trying on my own, and yesterday, I did it! My cortadito tasted perfect, but it didn't look perfect. I still haven't mastered getting that little macchia on top, as you can see below. In fact, my version looks kind of pathetic. But I won't give up. I may need to get a little hand steamer for the milk. And, I may need to go back for some extra help from Mrs. Rodriguez...

ThighMaster, Waipi'o Valley, The Big Island

One morning while we were in Hilo, we decided to drive north on the Hawaii Belt Road to the Waipi'o Valley. I had read of this very steep walk down into the valley (supposedly 1000 feet descent at a 25% grade in one mile) where willing participants were rewarded with taro ponds, wild horses, waterfalls, and intense muscle burn from the walk back up. Lucky ones supposedly got picked up by Jeep drivers. Of course, I wanted to do this. Matt, on the other hand, was a bit hesitant. We both were afraid of blisters and chafing. Still we loaded up on musubis, coffee, and local bananas, and headed up there to see what it was all about.

On our way, we drove through Pepe'ekeo, which felt like a jungle - bamboo groves, vast banyan trees, and sun rays and ocean glimpses just sneaking through openings in the green. We drove up to Akaka Falls State Park, a drive that strangely reminded me of the drive to Welsch Village here in Minnesota. We followed the boardwalks to the falls, meeting the freaky monkey pods tree along our way. Akaka Falls was majestic. I realize majestic is a trite way to describe a waterfall, but I just don't know what else to say. It was tall and powerful, and as it fell, mist rose back up almost as high as the falls itself.

Soon we arrived at the Waipi'o Valley overlook. We parked our car and enviously watched the Jeeps barrel down towards the valley floor. In a fit of idiotic adult maturity, I had rejected our Jeep at the rental office in favor of a car with a secure trunk. Now, unless I was ready to hoof it, I wasn't going to get down to the floor. We saw a middle-aged couple walk up the steep road. I asked them how the walk back up was even though I could see the sweat on their faces and their arms on their weary hips as they took the last few steps. "Oh, we only walked down to the first turn," they replied.

Pouting more than a little bit, I snapped a few pictures of the valley from the overlook, and we returned to the car. Seeing sullen me, my sweet, indulgent husband drove to get some water and snacks and decided we would make the hike down. We were sure someone would offer us a ride back up.

The walk down was deceptively easy. Along the way we met a very sweaty family coming back up. The father and one of his daughters were scampering up ahead while the mother and another daughter lagged miserably behind.

When we reached the valley floor, we walked to Hi'lawe Falls, which I believe at 1200 feet is the highest freestanding waterfall in Hawaii. We then headed back towards the ocean, past a handful of houses. My trusty guidebook (which I stupidly carried down there) said that now only 50-60 people live down. A tsunami in 1946 destroyed the village, but not the people, who had evacuated. We noticed a "stone wall" made of the remnants of an old car and abandoned boats littering the yards. The valley floor was filled with small taro and lotus ponds; it was very much like the park in Northfield that always floods (sans the taro and lotus). The land was picturesque, but the residents made it very clear that they didn't like trespassers, so we kept to ourselves.

We followed a muddy road to the beach. Two men were surfing, and two older people were attempting to ford Waipi'o Stream, which splits the beach. Another two people were in the middle of a photo shoot, with a bikini-clad girl and all! We watched the crashing waves and the two hikers fall into the stream before we turned back to meet our fate.

I was disappointed about two things: the lack of mythical horses and the mythical kindly jeep drivers. I knew wild horses would have made the journey worthwhile. We saw waterfalls, taro ponds, and wild pineapples, but I couldn't really say that trip was really worth the effort. We kept joking that we could ride one of the mythical horses back up the road, but we hadn't even seen one, which kind of stunk for all the physical exertion we were about to go through. I saw horseshit everywhere, but no horses. On our way down, we also hadn't seen one car stop to help any of the pathetic walkers. We knew no horse nor man would help us. We were on our own.

And then Matt stopped walking and whispered, "Court." Just like the moose in Newfoundland, two horses climbed down from the valley wall. One froze in front of us, and the other chomped nonchalantly on leaves. Not sure what to do, I snapped a few pictures and slowly walked by the still horse. The horse, like a scared Hideki with his backpack on, stayed frozen in place.

And, so, we reached the base of the Waipi'o Valley Road, satisfied and ready. We climbed in 100 step chunks to pace ourselves and keep count. Half-way up, as we sat on a rock to catch our breath and swig our water, a Waipi'o local man stopped his pick-up to let his hitchhiker pause to take in the view. He told us that the road was the steepest paved county road in the United States. His passenger, most likely stoned, upon hearing I was from Minnesota, lunged forward to give me a big hug. He had reason to be happy; he had found the mythical ride. Too bad for him that it was in wrong direction.

About 1880 steps later, drenched in sweat, we made it back to the overlook. And then we ate a bag of chips.

A Hostel After All These Years, Hilo, Hawaii

Overwhelmed by the cost and pomp of the hotels we were checking out on-line, Matt and I booked a couple nights of our stay in Hawaii at the Hilo Bay Hostel in Hilo on the Big Island. The price was right (1/3 of our hotel costs everywhere else for a private room), and we wanted a change from the big chain hotels anyway.

Right off the bat, we both liked the place. There was a wide, open entrance that led up a staircase to a gathering space. Surfboards decorated the ceiling, and birds chirped a cheery welcome. A young mother made dinner with her toddler in the kitchen, and a young girl sat at the common table journaling, reminding me of me once upon a time. Our host reminded me of one of my student's parents, and I immediately liked him, too.

It only took one minute inside our room to untint my rosy memories of hostels past. The windows were without screens and locks, and my pillow was lined with plastic. We had only flat sheets and tired, thinned bedspreads. A box fan sat on the floor next to a white wicker chair. We were a far cry from the Hawaiian Hilton Village.

And, yet, that night, I slept just fine. And the next morning, with the hostel quiet and the parakeets still under cover, the only movement was the young mother back in the kitchen with her son. Happily, I walked down the hill for coffee from Hilo Sharkey's and to check out the surfers braving the cool, wet morning. Within an hour, I was back at the hostel, journaling happily in the common area.