Sugar Cube Bones and Earl Grey Caramels

I think there is sugar in my bone marrow, because I’m only sweet when I’m broken.  I think it’s something in me that’s not whole until it’s all wrong.  And it’s all wrong due to my perspective, my honest attempt at dissolving it all.  Sugar cubes in a horse’s mouth, small satisfactions to calm a beast down. Are there two polarities to God?  Creation and destruction?  The catalyst and the dissolution?  Bookends of the Testaments and the circle of life.  Are they two separate or one in the same.  Does Ouroboros live a little more closely to our heart than we thought?  I ask myself these questions as I lay in bed and try to fall asleep.  I did my nightly routine of reading with my head propped up by two pillows, my face washed with cold water and Cetaphil, a face cream prescribed by my doctor, and a half-hearted prayer between barely-parted lips.  In the end, it doesn’t matter much.  In the end, I still wake up the next day and drive to work in a leased car and avoid people’s eyes until coffee and small talk to wake my tired mind.

Why am I so tired? Seems to be a common response when I look in the mirror.  My mother’s skin which I’ve inherited never seem to give me the tired look I want and when I say I’m exhausted, people think I’m lying.  No energy to walk the dogs, no energy to apply to new jobs.  No energy for sex or dishes, laundry or reading.  Some days I’m prone to moping, some days aren’t mine at all and I feel guilty if I try to reclaim them as my own.

But I know how necessary my emotions are and I resent the cyclical nature of the beast when I’m tired and can’t talk, but if I keep silent, I’m all the more tired.  Everything in me churns when I’m upset and I’m prone to making scenes at Wal-Mart if the moment calls for it.  The last week, I’ve had to remind myself and others that I am a human being, speaking those exact words into a phone and into my boyfriend’s face.  I think the only human thing about me when I get this tired is that I still have emotions, can raise my voice to declare them, speak them into existence and then to validate my feelings.  I cherish those moments of clarity.  It scares me all the same.

I used to sit at the precipice of decisions and so cavalierly go towards the path of least resistance.  I'm realizing the mistake in that, in not voicing my opinion, my life, my passions into the universe.  Even if it echoed ad infinitum, even if it beat with the same intensity as my heart after sex, even if it was a duck-call and barked once into the silent creek, at least I would know I said my fears out loud.  For the first time, so it would be easier to do it again and again. Instead I can complain for five days about something that could have been done a week ago and time isn't even comprehensible to me when I get like that.   But I'd rather just distract myself and give myself a pacifier before bed.

And that's what these caramels are.  They're a way to distract me in the mundanity of stirring the mixture for minute and minute.  They're a way to satisfy every aching tooth I have.  They're a way to get compliments at work and from Nolan, whom I've been demanding of lately.  They're a way to see science unfold before me and know that the whole world is catalyst and inhibitor.  And I should learn to love it and seek relics of that unkind truth.

Enjoy, they're my own.  A synesthesiatic blending of spotting blends of tea my mother sent me and remembering an old caramel recipe she sent me when she first started at the candy store.  I added some layers of flavor and mellowed out the butter.  But it's a distraction all the same.  A science lesson and a kiss-and-make-up type of gift.  A bit of myself in every bite.

Earl Grey and Bergamot Caramels (with dark chocolate and sea salt)

Chewy and melty, these caramels are a treat for breakfast, dessert, or as an "I'm-nervous-so-I'm-eating" kind of snack.  I suggest wrapping them individually in parchment paper, so they can be transported and portion-controlled. I gave a couple alternatives for toppings in the parentheticals.

Ingredients:

• 3/4 cup heavy whipping cream
• 2 tablespoons loose tea leaves (about 5 tea bags, less if you don't want the flavor as strong)
• 1 cup white sugar
• 1/2 cup brown sugar, packed
• 1 stick butter, cut into pieces
• 1/2 half 'n half
• 1/2 cup light corn syrup

Directions

1. Prepare a 9x9 pan with parchment paper and make sure all sides are well-buttered
2. In a small saucepan, heat cream and tea leaves on a simmer for about five minutes until color is golden and leaves clump together
3. Strain infused cream into a four-quart saucepan (it is okay to have some leaves in the cream, it'll only add to the flavor); alternatively, take tea leaves out and transport cream into a bigger pan
4. Mix remaining ingredients into saucepan and heat on medium-high.  As it heats up, it will bubble and get sticky.  Keep stirring during this period until it begins to boil.  Do not stir for another fifteen minutes or so and let it remain in a controlled boil.  The consistency will change throughout the process.
5. When the temperature gets to 242 degrees Fahrenheit, remove from heat and pour directly into prepared pan (You can top with flaked sea salt here)
6. Cool at room temperature for a couple hours until completely set and can press finger into tops and do not burn yourself
7. (Here, you can then pour some melted dark chocolate over top and some sea salt and allow to cool before cutting)
8. Cut into desired pieces, wrap in parchment paper.

Mon charme ne suffit pas.

I think they made God omnipresent because he has stopped listening.  I don't know how many unnamed, domestic gods I have prayed to at the hearth for my cake to finish right, brown evenly, come out clean and pretty.  And I know it's all superstition, I know it's all in good fun.  I know it's stress that I put on myself because it's easy to become distracted from the real problems in your life if you just keep waiting for the oven to preheat to 350.  God's been made omnipresent and omnipotent because all those everyday gods gave up, turned their deaf ear to the complaints of children like me. At 22, you would think I could handle things better.  All the successes I can base my resume on, the cumulation of packrat skill sets I typed in Times New Roman, have not coached me to be able to set aside my hubris and know, realistically and reasonably, I cannot get everything I've ever wanted.

This week has been small failures that have built up.  Small disappointments, actions that have centered around trying to convince others to love me, to hire me, to think of me as creative.  Each one more exhausting than the last.  A performance, like everything else in life, has to have validation from the audience.  But, I did not hear the applause I wanted, I did not smile when I was in the limelight.

I want to quit my job.  And when I was unemployed, I wanted a job.  I want to bake sweet things and experiment with buttermilk.  I want to explore the Pacific Northwest and try to make it to Nashville in October for my sister's alleged wedding.  I want to be home to teach Elsa the dozens of words Murphy knows and I am aware of the disadvantage of my not being home for her.  I want to revisit Twin Peaks and put the clues together myself.  I want to quit my job, so I am away from the negative space it has become.  But I will stay because I was not hired this week by a new company.  I was foolish and charming in my interview.  Professional and sincere.  I prayed to God on the way home to forgive me for lying on my resume, for saying I am conversation in French and raised $20,000 for the American Cancer Society, and I bargained my soul on this job.  It didn't come.  I called the woman directly and was denied the position.  I will not quit my job and I will bake sweet things after my eight hours are done.  I will go to Seattle when the flights are cheap and the oysters are good.  I will say "Daddy" until Elsa knows that's me and "Papa" when Nolan comes home.  I write a To-Do list every day and I never do anything of the things on it.  But, I don't regret that for a second; the job may take a while, but it'll get done.

And the bills may change colors and the notices written more boldly, but I don't get paid until Friday, so I'm not going to worry until I have to.

But I do worry about my talents.  If I can build myself up enough so I can keep my head down and my hands still moving.  I bake for pleasure and a peace of mind.  I bake and bring it to work so I get compliments and attention.  Sometimes I bake what Nolan is craving, but most of the time, I bake it so it's pretty and then we let it go stale.  But it's okay, because I'll make something else the next day.

Baking is science and exact, always with a conclusion.  Baking has let me see a talent I didn't know I could possess and to make notes on others' recipes and feel a connectivity that has been lacking in San Diego.  It's allowed me to explore farmers' markets and dollar stores, a family-owned Afghani market, and my own backyard.  It has shown me a beauty I used to take for granted.  And so I always want to give back to the altar of the domestic god something beautiful back.  And I just couldn't this week when I tried to invert my insufficiently-greased cake onto a set of plates that once belonged to Nolan's grandmother.

The cake was moist and tender, browned and floral.  I used a pinot grigio and olive oil, chunked peaches and rosewater.  I had plans to make it beautiful and took the sheet off my bed to use as the backdrop for the photo.  But it feel apart.  It crumbled into pieces and broke my heart.  I don't know why I put so much emphasis into the everyday things that matter, but I can't even buy the study material for the GRE.  But I do.  It's young folly, remnants of my adolescent hubris.  It'll go away one day, but it's easy to be lethargic and hopeful when nothing but your own advice are all you have to go on.  And the stakes aren't all that high, but this cake meant so much to you.  And it broke.  I was silent for a half hour afterwards.

But I realized, baking is like any branch of knowledge.  It's a hydra, it has a way of coming back tenfold once you master it and cut off its head.  I thought I was able to defeat it.  I thought I was good at whipping and folding, inverting and measuring.  But I was wrong and it was a learning lesson.  So I'm not going to worry until I have to.

I like who I am becoming and the bits of cake I ate directly out of the bundt pan were delicious.  I have included the link below to the Local Milk recipe I adapted it from (make sure to definitely check out her work, always an inspiration).  The only changed I made were using the wine instead of the juice, no herbs, and two chopped peaches.

A failed attempt at a White Peach-Rose Olive Oil Cake, adapted from here

Where I Was From.

I believe in second chances and the inevitable twentieth. I believe the proverbial inch has always been the mile. I believe in exhausting those chances and believe in finding reasons to renew them. I don’t believe in falling in love, but I believe in sticking it all out until you can’t stick it out no more. You have to find a way to reinvent yourself and I have been reinvented over and over these last few months. I’ve been unemployed, a salesperson, and an administrative manager. I’ve been really shitty to myself, really shitty to others, and at times negligent of everything. Bills and housework, dogs and boyfriends. All my relationships kind of crumple when I don’t tend to them, they end up like flowers in the kitchen windowsill—swollen and hot, then brittle to the touch. But I’ve learned to brush the dust off my hands and work harder at the goals I have. And that is the Protestant work ethic. My reward will come from work, not by the grace of your God or mine, not by the outstretched hand of a friend or an acquaintance.

That work ethic has run deep and has presented itself in unlikely ways. It’s intravenous and liminal, static and electric. It’s down in my gut when I’m guilty of sitting on the couch too long and painstakingly obvious when I fall asleep with another To-Do list in the works. It will all make me a better person, every last drop of sweat. Every last missed opportunity. Every last night in and early mornings and missed vacation. It will all pay off, because you gain pride from the aceticism of owing someone else so much, too guilty to ever give yourself too much credit, buy yourself too many clothes, put a little back in your own bank account for that proverbial rainy day fund that disappears before that rain every dried up.

When everything is communal, you start to lay claims. And I thank whatever God that’s been bred into my consciousness that I can still hold onto that.   And I owe it to my roots, the kinds that haven’t taken hold. The kinds that are telephonic and casual, the kind I can pick up or ignore at will. The kind that still live in Pennsylvania, Indiana. North Carolina and West Virginia.   The kinds that inspired within me to be truthful of my intentions in this world and truthful to the person I’ve become.

My mother has arthritis at 43, deep in her clavicle. She said it came from working “hard jobs”. She’s been a janitor and a candy-maker, she worked in a deep-freeze at a Wal-Mart distribution center in eastern Kentucky once. She comes from a German stock; we’re all flat-boned and broad limbed. My dad never had to go to war, but he served our country just the same. My aunt has worked at the same factory for 15 years. My uncle drives trucks for a living and my sister makes coffee for truck drivers off an interstate near Maryland. They’re hard folk who eat hearty. They’re heavy folk who eat light in the summer until dusk and then they feed heavy. Meat and potatoes, biscuits and gravy. Dough fried in reserved bacon grease, informal dinners around the TV.

All this I recognized from my trip to North Carolina, all this I recognized in myself. And I can’t deny it any longer how my Midwestern values took root somewhere in my soul, and I can’t deny the satisfaction of having people like me exist in different circumstances that I could never see myself in. When everything is communal, I lay claims to my family and my pride in being from the salt of the earth.

And, in doing so, I have become so inspired by the every day. The roadside produce stands and the chainlink fence. The rope-tied dog that howls at the open moon and the crawdads you never knew could be eaten. The marriage of eating-this-because-we-have-a-coupon and eating-this-because-my-mother-made-it-this-way. Seeing beauty in that. Or how there are town-wide parades to celebrate the anniversary of my uncle who died in Afghanistan. Seeing beauty in the years of the hardworking middle-class that gave me my bone structure and reaping the benefits of those farmers and military men to move to California and willingly quit law school to find myself the hard way and know what it’s like to be really, truly poor for the first time ever and learning to cook because of necessity and not as a hobby.

The Protestant work ethic. The marriage of Southern tradition and Midwestern values. The sense of accomplishment at not losing my mind and finding a place in my family in June. It was all so holy to me. I didn’t know it was going to mean so much to me, but it was a pilgrimage, a Hajj, a Junrei of self-acceptance vis a vis familial acceptance. Where I was from, where I am going. Who I am. These are no longer existential cries of understanding, they are part of my here and now.

And in celebration of that knowledge, I cooked. I cooked with love, with honor and tradition. With understanding that these would be hearty ingredients, that the cast iron was necessary and not accessory. That the fatty dairy would have been pure, like how my grandmother Ruth would have made it straight from the cow (how maybe I would have, too, if my grandfather hadn’t sold the farm in the 70’s). I made this meal to honor every composite of myself. And it’s simple: meat, potatoes, and pie.

Steak and Buttermilk-Herbed Potatoes

This is a casual meal, thrown together without discretion for any kind of culinary know-how.  Love it for what it is, for where it came from.

Ingredients:

        For the Steak:

• 2 rib steaks, 6-10 oz
• Olive oil
• Cayenne pepper
• Salt
• Black Pepper
• Garam masala
• Paprika
• Garlic salt
• 2 TB Butter, softened

For the potatoes

• 6-8 small to medium russet potatoes, sliced as thin as you can (do this before beginning cooking the meat.  If need be, place in cold water to keep)
• 1/3 cup buttermilk
• 4 TB butter, melted
• 1 TS salt
• 1 1/2 - 2 TB Herbs de provence
• 2 cloves garlic, finely minced

Directions for Steak:

1. Completely thaw steak until malleable and soft, completely sandwich between paper towels and pat dry
2. Brush with olive oil and rub in softened butter (the butter will give flavor, the olive oil will help to sear) and set aside, making sure to not wipe off the butter and oil.
3. Use two separate plates for the rub.  On the first, pour the spices.  I would say I used 1 1/2 TS - 1 TB per spice (be cognizant of the flavors, for obvious reasons.  I used less salt, but knew the steak--and my tastebuds--could hold up to a more seasoned and spicy meat with garam masala and cayenne pepper).  Combine with a fork.
4. Place oiled and buttered meats into spice plate and rub completely around.  Place on reserved plate.
5. Heat skillet (definitely prefer cast-iron here, but make sure you have some ventilation for it).  Use additional oil and butter until the pan starts to smoke a little to enhance the sear of the meat.
6. Put meat on skillet and let it sizzle.  As a general rule, do not touch meat until it voluntarily allows itself to be pulled from the metal.  Let it sear and cook for 3-4 minutes.  Check readiness.  Flip for additional 3-5 minutes, depending on how done you like your meat.
7. Reserve steak grease for use. Wrap in aluminum foil and let sit while you prepare the potatoes.

Directions for potatoes:

1. Place potatoes in bowl (dry them off as much as possible so the herbs and butter can stick).
2. Melt butter in small saucepan or microwave, pour over potatoes along with buttermilk
3. Add salt, garlic, and herbs
4. In the same skillet you cooked the steaks, add additional oil or butter and heat back up.  Does not have to smoke-to-sear here.
5. Pour potatoes in and stir constantly until all edges are crisp and inside is softened.  Some will be burnt and blackened, some will be soft and baked.
6. Allow to cool for a minute.  Plate with steak.  (Additionally, enjoy these with a little cheese while still hot, if desired).
7. Enjoy!

Buttermilk-lemon Pie

And finally, for you, I have a buttermilk-lemon pie that truly invoked my newfound love of the South.  So pretty, so simple.  So versatile.  And did I mention pretty?

Ingredients:

• A good quality store-bought pie crust (okay, okay, I cheated here a little)
• 3 eggs
• 1¼ cups granulated sugar
• 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• ½ cup melted butter
• 1 cup buttermilk
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
• 1 tablespoon lemon zest
• Pinch of salt
• 2 TB raw organic sugar (not super-fine, but you want crystals) or brown sugar
• 1 TS instant espresso

Directions:

1. Prepare 9-inch pie crust per your own recipe or the package directions
2. Mix all ingredients (save the organic sugar and espresso) until well-combined.  It will be pale yellow and delicious.  ((I mixed all of mine in a Pyrex liquid measuring cup for ease)
3. Pour into prepared pie shell
4. In a small bowl, mix organic sugar or brown sugar and espresso with a until well combined.  With a spoon, gently shake and pour sugar until covering pie.  Use more if not enough (I eyeballed)
5. Bake for 45-50 minutes until cracking and caramelized on top.
6. Allow to cool in fridge for about 30 minutes for best consistency for slicing and taste.

North Carolina, pt. 3

There are genetic tests through hair samples to map out every single place you've ever been.  There are new studies that show that starvation and trauma-induced depression and psychosis can be hereditary through small changes in RNA that is outside of the genome--the essence of you.  Every roadmap we trace our little fingers on, every winter your mother stayed under the covers and  forgot your birthday, everything the genome forgot to tell you, it's all built on experience. I thought about this when we finally found my brother's house.  Blinking back the sunlight, seeing the church my brother would be married in four days' time.  I thought about what moments changed me so greatly the RNA inhibited growth in certain genes:  The hatred I felt when I came out.  The deafening silence I felt when I banged my head on the church altar the night my mother told me my uncle died in Afghanistan.  The detached realization that I wouldn't make the funeral because I was in Italy studying art.  The summers I spent as a child, screaming into a locked closet door while my brother was on the other side with the key.  Those experiences changed me molecularly, cellularly.  I dreaded reliving those moments in the silence, how each pause or lull in conversation could be interpreted as resentment.

Really, truly, the only thing I resented was not learning how to forgive when i needed to most.

And I did.  I forgave in a way that was unlike my grudge-harboring self.   I forgave my aunts and uncles for the unspoken words as they greeted me with beer at Nag's Head.  I forgave my sister for all the foolish adolescent arguments we still held onto and we opened up to each other on the three hour ride to the beach.  I forgave my grandfather for calling me the wrong name on the phone after not talking to me for five years.  I forgave, I forgave, and I forgave.  And I smiled and lost sunglasses (and found them at the bottom of the tides).   Sometimes it was overwhelming, sometimes it was organic.  And each time we made promises to keep in touch, we knew it was never going to happen.  But, it was the clarity of knowing where our weaknesses lie that made it all the more real to make those promises.  It was a gossamer veil of a relationship that was just a little too transparent for all of us.  In the periphery of our embraces, we could all sense the charade.

I still have not received the phone calls I was promised.  I am still the stubborn boy I was before I left and need proof of their love before I give in and make the first call.  But, at least now I know my family.  And I understand my mother and know her as an adult now.  We drank four nights straight and laughed for five.  We hugged tight at the airport and I knew it was different each time I said goodbye, how the promise of seeing her again all depended on schedules and airline prices and her progressive arthritis.  But she opened up to me, found comfort in my understanding her ways, and held her hand in the silence on the way to the airport.  The windows stayed down and my grandfather's pipe formed tails of smoke motes that floated between our heads.

I wear a Piggly Wiggly shirt that we bought together almost every night to bed.

But it was not just my mother I got to know better, not just my relatives whom I'll drift away from casually and expectantly again.  I got to relive all the moments of high school with Carissa, experienced new ones and solidified our friendship with a tattoo.  We dedicated it permanently, and it's a perfect emblem of our relationship.  A small outline of a hummingbird sit on my right shoulder, hers on her back.  The edges on mine have blurred a little, but it's permanent nonetheless.  There's a metaphor in there somewhere, a poem about us I can't write just yet.

But, I never had a moment alone with my brother.  A moment to be the best man I was elected to be.  He helped me with my corsage and that was it.  In silence, he handed me a card that thanked me for coming out and I hugged him in an awkward, obligatory way.  I do not know his wife, Jennie, and I kept my distance.  They have their house in North Carolina and their jobs as teachers, their dog and toy collection, their bedroom in their attic.  They are building a life together, they went diving in the Florida Keys together.  I don't need to disrupt a harmony I had no part of.  I kept my distance.  I'll always keep my distance with him, and it's understood and not forced anymore between us.  It's comfortable, and that's relieving.

But in all those moments as the trip wore down, each second I took to remember where I was and whom I was talking to, I never forgot that I have a life in California.  A life no one can relate to, but old women in the church basement will ask if you know so-and-so, who may have visited there in 1973.  You know they mean well, but they know nothing about you and expect you to know everything about them. Now I am a scatterplot of triumphs and failures that have somehow formed this version of myself that's at once cynical and optimistic, serious and the performer.  I'm transitioning between two worlds and constantly having to remind myself that I physically am not in Pennsylvania anymore, that I cannot hold my mother's hand again for another six months.  That those laughs were not promised like they used to be.  To look each person in the eyes and mean it when you say you love them.  I have learned these things through mistakes and I could write a million vignettes about my week in North Carolina, but none of them were as important as that lesson.

North Carolina, pt. 2

I can be pensive when I need to be, to appear intelligent and aloof.  I can do this as protection or for show, a drag I perform to keep myself entertained on the long flights and the short layovers.  I play this game and wonder who think I'm interesting.  In the liminal spaces of airport terminals, everyone wants to be an image of God, someone you'll clutch and pray to when the seatbelt sign flashes, when turbulence hits, when the seat has to remain in an upright position. I feel the same way about friends.  Who will crash with me? Who will share their mask and let me breathe with them?  So few people have met those standards, so few have tried.  My circle of friends used to be loose and crocheted, a yarn of commonality from being bored in the same area code.  Now, the scatterplot characters I call friends are in timezone drifts and desert plains, in metropolitan cities with crime rates and county fairs.  As you get older, you begin to lessen the load, streamline the birthday cards to remember, the gifts to buy.  The secrets you once told the room now remain between you, God, your teddy bear, and a friend.  Whoever will listen rather than opine, whoever will not judge.

I have this in my friend, Carissa.  I have this on a level unsurpassed by any other person I've met.  We hugged tight in her car as she pulled up to greet me at the airport.  She handed me fried chicken, we went to Taco Bell.  A relationship built on unashamed enjoyment of dollar menus and drive-throughs, stopping at a fast food restaurant is intrinsic to our friendship.  It's in the DNA of who we both have become together because there is no pretense, no need for customs and waiters.  We are happy to substitute a napkin for a shirt sleeve, we are happy to laugh at ourselves and who we have become.

After, we drove to her apartment, in a suburb of Philadelphia.  In a two-bed-two-bath, with high ceilings and broken bar stools.  I slept on the couch, the air conditioning turned on to combat the insidious humidity that unapologetically clings to your body like static.  There was no getting rid of the heat, and I was introduced to it in Philadelphia.

And the next morning, when I dropped Carissa off at work to have her car for the day, I stripped my sweaty shirt off and sat for a while in the parking lot of her complex, marveling at the greenery and the way birds sang higher notes.  Beads formed, breath shortened, and I followed the familiar zigzag of hallways that led to her doorstep.  I drank the rest of my gas station coffee and found every movement of mine echoing in her airy apartment.  I had time to think, to relax, to hear myself and my opinions.  I had time, for the first time in a long time.

So I cleaned her apartment.  I did the dishes and folded blankets.  I put laundry away and wiped my spit from the sink.  I did it because I wanted to show I loved her in a way she wouldn't expect.  I like to be kept busy, and I'm good at distracting myself from myself.  The echoes were almost too loud, they drowned out the birdcalls I loved so much.

When it was time to pick up Carissa, we headed towards Richmond, Virginia, the overnight stop on our way to Pinetops, North Carolina.  We shot down lanes, followed banks and rivers.  We covered more mileage in the Chesapeake Bay Watershed than I had in years.  We stocked up on snacks, and stopped once to buy lottery tickets outside of Baltimore.  Carissa drove the whole way and I watched her lips move in the cold blue hues of her dashboard as we sang along to the radio.  It was a night when the water made the air cold and we fogged up the windows from laughing at ourselves.

We checked into a Microtel that had bulletproof glass and slept in a queen-sized bed, waking up five hours later to pull into my brother's driveway by nine the next morning.