The Simplest Hardest Cake in the World

December 13, 2013 / roughwighting / 31 Comments

When we’re first in love, we’ll do just about anything for the new apple in our eye.

Even bake a cake. A cake from a 100-year-old recipe.

At least, that’s what I grumbled lo those many years ago when I began to date the man I now call my guy.

We met in September. He lived in one state, I lived in another, so we dated by commute. But by the end of November, he asked to stay for a weekend in mid-December. I said yes, and in the next breath he said, “Oh, and by the way, it’s my birthday.”

I skipped only one beat and said, “I’ll take you out for dinner.”

He skipped no beats when replying, “Um, what I’d really like is my grandmother’s birthday cake.”

WHAT?

Turns out, since my guy was a little boy, his mom made him a cake from a recipe his grandmother discovered long ago in an old magazine. My guy loved that cake, and wondered if I’d like to bake it for his birthday.

Before I could say, “NO,” I opened my mailbox to discover a sweet love letter, with a yellowed piece of thin paper inside: the recipe for ye old “Ski Cake.”

The day before he arrived for his weekend visit, I followed the directions to the last teaspoon, creaming the butter and sugar while “working in” the milk and sifted flour (back in the grandmother’s days, the cook had to sift her own flour). I beat the egg whites and made a meringue and folded it into the cake, per instructions. As easy as ….cake.

Granted, as soon as I took it out of the oven it flattened half its size, but still, I figured that’s how cakes looked in the olden days.

I frosted and set it before my dimpled date on his birthday, and with bated breath waited for him to take a bite.

He bit, and he chewed, and chewed and chewed, before he finally swallowed. Twice.

Averting my eyes, he said, “Delicious.”

I took a bite. The cake was as hard as a rock and tasted like stone.

Despite my failure, we married within a year, and on his next birthday, I tried again.

With the same results.

On our third anniversary, I had a new oven in a different state with a state-of-the-art mixer.

But the same results.

A week before our fourth anniversary, I called my guy’s mom and admitted my dilemma.

“I follow the old recipe exactly, each time, and each time, it’s a bust!” I moaned.

A small effervescent bubble popped between the phone lines. A few seconds after the pop I realized the noise was my mother-in-law’s chuckle.

“No one can make that recipe work,” the sweet woman explained. “On his birthdays, I’d race to the store and buy a Betty Crocker white cake mix. He never knew the difference.”

I didn’t find it as funny as she did, but you can be damn sure that I ran to the store and bought that cake mix, and the night before his birthday, in secret, baked the best Ski Cake my guy had ever tasted.

He said so.

And every December, he enjoys my home-baked, best simplest hardest birthday cake in the world.

Ski Cake

You Asked for It!

December 6, 2013 / roughwighting / 20 Comments

You asked for it.

I finally delivered.

The highly-reviewed book, The Right Wrong Man, is now available in paperback.

I’ve interviewed the person most affected by our book’s evolution, Meredith, a more interesting character than I, so to speak, who plays a pivotal role in the journey from e-book to paper.

First, as an introduction for those who have never met you, are you a hot person, or a cold one?

Oh, what a trick question! My boyfriend says I’m very hot (giggle), but if you’re talking about the weather and are familiar with my recent escapades to the Caribbean, I admit that despite the soft sultry warmth of those islands, I prefer the four wild unpredictable seasons of New England.

Wild and unpredictable New England weather.

Speaking of wild and unpredictable, how’s your story been received by the critics, as well as your friends and family?

Wow, that was quite a segue. My story, developed by PS Wight as The Right Wrong Man, ended up being researched, studied, and then committee-ed by the F.B.I, the C.I.A., and the D.E.A. since its publication in January, 2013. I’m amazed that my actions regarding my kidnapping and ultimate discovery of illegal drug running have caused so much reaction.

Really? Surprised? Your role in the case was pivotal in…

Excuse me, I mean I’m amazed at the readers’ reaction to the book. So many people who don’t know me (or my author) bought the e-book in droves, and the reviews of my story have been rewarding, to say it mildly. My family hasn’t exactly liked the way some of their secrets have been revealed, and my boyfriend is a bit worried about how the authorities have reacted, but overall, it’s been rewardingly successful.

Speaking of “your author,” as you have several times, what’s your take on her latest big news about your book?

The Kindle Edition.

OMG, PS Wight is just not technologically proficient, know what I mean? I wanted to jump out of the pages and help the poor woman. But I give her credit. So many of her friends and blog followers have begged her to publish The Right Wrong Man as a paperback for those who are not into e-reading. Personally, I agree with them (though I never share my thoughts with Wight– she has spent too many hours formatting and screaming obscenities – for a sweet woman, I was shocked at some of the words she used) and praying that she wouldn’t succeed when she attempted to throw her computer out of her window into the nearby waters of the SF Bay. What passion!

Are you happy to be in paper now ?

Ecstatic! I felt a bit ethereal, you know, with my story squished into the Kindle. Now I’m a white and black character full of print and potency. I can sit on your desk and be visible day and night! Although I’m certain some departments of the D.E. A. will try to confiscate any paperback editions hanging around their offices, I think this book will sell even faster than the e-book did. The story is a nail-biter (I’ve read it five times, and even though it’s about ME, I still hold my breath during every chapter).

Now available in softback!

Thanks for stopping by at Roughwighting, Meredith.

Oh, thanks for having me. Here is my question to your readers. Can you guess what TRMFY means?

To get the answer, and to enjoy Meredith’s wild and unpredictable adventure from Boston to the Caribbean, from one wrong man to the next, while helping discover a dangerous drug ring, hit the link here and visit The Right Wrong Man‘s Amazon page. Available now in softback, as well as e-book.

A Thanksgiving Dance

November 29, 2013November 28, 2013 / roughwighting / 15 Comments

We peer out the window and watch the leaves dance dramatically in the fresh late autumn air. The burnt reds, dulled oranges, and browns are gay in their jig, and we stop resisting the urge to go out and join the party.

After pulling on my navy jacket, I bark a quick “Let’s go” to the dog and the two of us race to a path that leads to the wildlife refuge – a marsh hidden with a wild kingdom. Ten minutes later we walk on the trail that circles the large estuary, covered with tall brown reeds, cat’s tails, and grasses.

I’m disappointed though; not much wildlife in sight. The geese honk overhead. The red-winged black bird has already flown south for the coming winter.

Photo by Susan Licht. (http://lichtyears.wordpress.com/)

My dog stands as still as a stone though, his golden ears raised higher than a giraffe’s. Yes! Suddenly with a swoosh like a hundred taffeta dresses moving in synchronicity on the dance hall, hundreds of hidden ducks swirl out of the water and up into the air.

The sound moves me like no other, and I feel connected to the land, the sky, and to a hidden God just revealed.

Thanksgiving, wildlife refuge, walking, birds

http://www.calliebowdish.com

Giving thanks to all that makes us dance, laugh, and love in a sometimes dark and chaotic world.

What’s in the Middle of your Middle Name?

November 22, 2013 / roughwighting / 54 Comments

Many middle names arrive in the middle of confusion, compromise, and even confrontation.

Take my middle name.

Well, for the first 30 years of my life, you couldn’t have taken it, because I didn’t have any.

When I became sentient enough to realize that unlike my friends (Beverly Lynn Pooling, Julie Glory Wyckoff, Barbara Ann Bancroft) I had no three-word-title to deliver on the right hand side of my school papers.

Just plain

Pamela Wight.

When I was 6, I asked my parents what my middle name was. They did that “parent look” over my head, the look that said “don’t say anything,” and just replied, “You don’t have one.”

When I was 9 I asked my parents why I didn’t have a middle name. They did that parent look again, but this time I stomped my foot and demanded an answer.

My mom explained, “when you were born, your dad and I couldn’t agree on what your middle name should be.”

Dad added, with love in his eyes, “so we agreed to give you NO middle name.”

Boy, that made me mad. So glad the argument turned out well for them, I thought, but what about me? I explained these feelings to them, as only a 9-year-old can, something like, “BUT I WANT A MIDDLE NAME NOOOOOOWWWWW.” So they calmed me with compromise.

“Pammy,” my dad said earnestly, “when you’re old enough, you can decide your own middle name.”

Wow, that stopped my protest immediately. Really? My middle name could be anything?

My mom, seeing how much pleasure this idea gave me, said over my head and into my father’s ear, “let’s see what she wants it to be right now. Why wait?”

So they asked me what I’d choose for my middle name. I thought, and thought, and thought carefully for over a week.

Pamela Thankful

Then I came back to them and announced that my name was now Pamela Thankful Wight.

Uh oh. That parental look across my head occurred again. After much “discussion” (me crying and they pleading), we came to a compromise. When I turned 15, I could create a middle name for myself, no matter what it was, and that would be that.

Well, six years later, I approached my parents on my birthday and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

They didn’t know what I was talking about! They had forgotten about my middle name.

I certainly had not.

I choose the perfect name. I heard it sung, over and over again, by the Beatles. The girl they sang about was beautiful and romantic and desired.

That would be me.

“My middle name,” I declared, “is Michelle.”

Pamela Michelle

Well, you’d think I’d said, “Ungrateful,” or “Freaky,” or “Drugs & Alcohol,” because my parents hated the name “Michelle.”

“You only like it because of the Beatles. Wait a few more years, then decide,” my dad said.

“I will never NOT like the name Michelle. Pamela Michelle Wight. It’s perfect!” I argued over and over, but to no avail.

So for the next 15 years, I had no middle name. Not for all my college applications, nor employment applications, nor even on my first mortgage statement.

I was Pamela “Nameless” Wight.

Until I met my guy who became my forever mine.

And guess one of the first things he did, after he declared undying love for me?

He gave me a middle name.

He began calling me Pamela S. Wight.

As soon as we began to co-exist (and then legally marry), he filled out our rental apps, taxes, insurance forms, school release forms for our kids, etc., etc. with his name and mine: Pamela S. Wight.

Only one slight problem.

To this day, he has still never told me what the “S” stands for.

To the Dump

November 15, 2013 / roughwighting / 31 Comments

It’s a weekly (happy) chore to most New Englanders.

Californians are horrified at the thought.

When my man and I moved to Massachusetts after 16 years in sunny California, our realtor informed us that we could choose to either pay for a trash pick-up service or select to take our trash to the town’s dump, euphemistically called the “transfer station.”

“I don’t think we even have to think about that one,” I answered.

“Exactly. The transfer station is the best choice,” the realtor agreed.

“But I meant…” I began.

“You’re new in town. The dump is where you’ll meet your neighbors, hear all the town gossip, and meet the local politicians,” she interrupted.

My guy and I glanced at each other and simultaneously exclaimed, “we’ll take the trash service.”

But our decision shocked our new New England friends.

“Why would you pay to have your trash taken away?” was a frequent question, underlined with a not-so-subtle inference that we wasted money and showed a lack of moral fortitude.

“But how do you ‘transfer’ the trash to the dump?” I’d stammer while still a Yankee newbie.

The looks of disbelief (and yes, a bit of disappointment) taught me that I was a foreigner, in a foreign land.

“You throw your trash bags – separated into garbage, cans, glass, paper – into your car, of course.”

I bit my tongue instead of following through with “what if you own a small car (which I did) and have a lot of trash?”

Because you know what the answer would be, don’t you.

Yup.

You just make more than one trip.

On the way to the N.E. dump.

But there are two other reasons besides New England thriftiness that drives residents to the dump.

No, we won’t let you take this to the dump!

One of them is that you can bring your 25-year-old bike, the electric can opener that never worked, and your 21-year-old son’s baby blanket and “dump” them into the garage-like shack at the transfer station.

Someone will be (anonymously) forever grateful.

Now that I’m back on the left coast, I admit to a twinge of remorse when I roll out the large brown trash bin to the curb, all clean and neat and easy.

So after trash day this week, I call a lovely New England friend and ask her how she’s handling her husband’s early retirement.

“Oh, it’s fabulous!” she declares. “He’s never home – he goes to the transfer station three times a day. He finds old junk in our basement to get rid of every week.

transfer station, New England, dump, old treasure

The boys meet at the transfer station.

I laugh, knowing he also meets his buddies there, including the former mayor, the reclusive billionaire, and their stockbroker.

“What could be more perfect?” I ask.

“Welll,” she vacillates. “Not perfect. He comes home with new treasure every time, like an ancient pair of skies (‘maybe I’ll learn this year,’ he says) and a 1980s pair of sunglasses that reminds him of the kind he lost 30 years ago.”