Baking Memories

K and I decided one day last weekend to bake cookies. And what a grand decision that was. It always is. We followed (generally) our family recipe accurately and affectionately entitled “Grandma Jo’s Sugar Cookies”.
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Grandma Jo’s Sugar Cookies

1 cup butter
2 eggs
1 cup powdered sugar
1 cup white sugar
1 tsp baking soda
1/3 tsp salt
1/4 cup cooking oil
2 tsp vanilla
1 tsp cream of tarter
4 ½ cups unsifted flour

Mix butter, oil and sugars.
Beat in eggs and add vanilla.
Sift dry ingredients together and add to mixture.
Refrigerate dough for no more than 45-50 minutes.
Roll out and cut with cookie cutters.
(Sprinkle flour onto counter top to prevent dough from sticking to counter).
Place on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 10 minutes at 350 degrees.
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I’m not sure if there is anything unique about this recipe but it was the one my Mother used and as current baking endeavors ensue they always conger up fond memories and familiar aromas from the respective childhoods of me and my children. And in recent years this has become the recipe of my wife Denise whose cookie making prowess commands the attention of every cookie eating friend and relative that I know. And now, the natural progression of things has obliged our daughters to assume their inherent roles as keepers of our family’s cookie knowledge treasures.

In my opinion, and I’m absolutely certain of this, being skillful at baking has little to do with the physical act of baking. No, the three key ingredients that combine to make a good baker are patience, imagination and ingenuity. After that the second tier of prerequisite attributes would probably be a working knowledge of math, a keen sensibility toward the organization of future thoughts and movements and a rather large and well defined sense of space. Of third tier importance is the possession of tools and supplies with which to bake, an ample supply of willing consumers of baked goods and of course a partner who enjoys cleaning up while you continue to perpetuate the motion of substantive ingredient transformation. Notably absent from this grab bag of baking skills is beer drinking. I’m certain that this is why steaks are grilled and quiche is baked. After all, beer drinking is the first skill of grilling, right before firefighting. But I digress…

Possessing all three tier one attributes in great abundance, K is a natural baker. I’m a bit of a reluctant baker, patience being my weakness. But I thrive on interaction with my family. It is my fuel. No, it’s beyond mere fuel. My family time acts more like a synergy together with my eager spirit – the combined effect being much greater than the simple sum of the individual effects.

Baking cookies consists of three main parts – mixing of stuff, flattening and cutting of stuff and heating of stuff. After the cookies are baked comes the good stuff – decorating and devouring.

The mixing of various ingredients in proper proportions to create usable dough is the most arduous task involved in the cookie baking process. It’s brutal. The task involves much cracking and sifting and beating. It is also where most of the math is involved…“Let’s see, if one batch requires 1-1/2 cups and we are making two batches but Grandma Jo always adds a bit extra but since we mistakenly used 1-1/2 teaspoon in lieu of 1-1/4 teaspoon of….”.

For our mixing stage K measured sugars and flour, I cracked eggs, we sifted the mixture and then we mixed and we mixed and we mixed. Then we subjected our mixture to a bit of "relaxation" in the refrigerator. However, lacking proper fortification we contrived a makeshift security measure lest our booty of cookie dough be pillaged whilst we rested from all of our incessant mixing.

Proper flattening of dough requires more skill than is readily apparent to the casual observer. And the actual flatness is the least of the worries. The sticking and breaking of dough are troublesome but are controlled through careful steadiness and tricks of the trade, here-to-fore unknown to non-bakers like myself, such as flouring the surface below the dough and sugaring the ever flattening top. And during the flattening proceedure, maintenance of a uniform thinness is paramount.

Since flattening is where most of the patience comes into play, K was our designated flattener. K skillfully rolled and flattened the doughy mound into a uniformly thinned disk that validated her deftness of patience.

Through much negotiation we settled upon a seemingly random scattering of chosen cookie shapes -big stars, little stars, clovers, hearts, dog bones and Space Needles. We rejected such shapes as witches, snow men, bunnies, pine trees, circles, turkeys, snowflakes and pumpkins. Armed with the agreed upon shapes and subsequent to K’s artful flattening, I assumed the role of the cutter. Cutting fits me because I like efficiencies. I enjoy combining various orientations of shapes and sizes to maximize the cookieness of the flattened dough and to minimize the scraps between cookies. I find this task to be oddly sporting. Never mind the fact that these carefully hewn remnants betwixt cookies are easily collected and recycled into the next flattened mass thus rendering the efficiency of my cuts meaningless.

And so we operated as a team - K flattened and I cut. Then we wadded up the scraps, added more dough and K flattened and I cut some more. We repeated these actions several times until we had exhausted all of our doughy resources.

Next came the baking. Again, this is the simple mindless part. Sure you’ve got to calculate the proper time and temperature of baking but these are more a function of the flattening process…thin cookies cook faster than thick ones. The only real difficulty in baking is to not forget to stop baking. Don’t leave them in too long. You need to take them out of the oven before they are fully cooked as they will continue to cook somewhat while they cool on the pan.

Surprisingly, our favorite part of cookie making is not the final “devouring” stage. K and I find the decorating to be particularly stimulating. It is a creative outlet. We enjoy smearing and troweling and splattering on frosting in various colors to create abstract works of art. Well, it’s actually more of an abstract mess but who’s to complain? All of the would-be complainers have their jowls too full of cookie to offer any discernable criticism.

Having spent several hours together on a common task with much conversation and laughter, we felt fulfilled. We made some great memories and at the end of the day we ate cookies. And they were good.

Take Me Home

Today the mundane ritual of retrieving the morning paper aroused a dormant migratory desire and positioned it squarely in contrast with my deep appreciation for being home. And as I considered this, it became readily apparent that these conflicting desires would neither resolve nor relent on their own.

As I slipped out through my front door the effects of the transformation were immediate. I was in Seattle. No, I was not transported to Seattle in a literal sense. Rather, in a way, it was brought to me. Seattle has been 1,700 miles (2,735km) to the west-northwest of Omaha for many millennia…and there it remains. But the smells, the climatic feel and the pure sounds of early morning nature were very much responsible for whisking me away, imagination and all, back into the Great Northwest.

OK, so there are no mountains, no Puget Sound or Lake Washington in Omaha. There are few cedars or firs and there are no bears in our back yard. And I don’t remember the last salmon run in Nebraska. But this morning it was 50 degrees and slightly damp and overcast. There was a fresh little breeze that cleared the air of everything except the sweet sounds of the many returning migratory birds. The morning air was full and empty at the same time. It was gorgeous!

I walked slowly down the drive, carefully taking in everything that the morning had to offer. I noticed the greening grass contrasted against the still barren trees. I looked at our neighbors houses up and down the winding road where we've called home for almost seventeen years. Then recalling my purpose, I slowly stooped and clutched the morning newspaper. Standing again I felt the cool breeze sweping past with the fond memories of the friends with whom we shared an equally gorgeous evening the night before. I thought of the fellowship born of much talk and laughter as the "food, wine and deck season" finally returned to Omaha, drawing good friends from their dwellings like the winter's frost from the ground. I drew in several deep breaths and then turned and thoroughly enjoyed my leisurely stroll back to the house. Wow, no WOW! I love this early spring weather. And I love our home.

Perhaps due to the pleasant outdoor conditions or perhaps due to some fundamental longing in my heart, I really felt the sense of being within striking distance of the mountains, the water, the seafood and the wine of my favorite domestic vacation spot. And moreover, I truly felt the sense of being within hugging distance of our most remote daughter J. I rushed into the house, grabbed my coffee and quickly dashed through the rear exit and onto the deck. There I witnessed the frailty of the rising sun as it attempted to break through the morning’s brume. As I struggled to maintain this transcendent feeling I caught myself humming the melody of the only country song that I’ve ever really loved…John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads.” And as I stood there at home scanning the western sky, I sensed the presence of Mt. Rainier veiled behind the soft morning haze.

Heroes

Yesterday was spent at the funeral of Denise’s uncle Pat. Interestingly Denise’s father’s sister is roughly her same age and therefore her uncle, by marriage to her aunt, was merely one year older than me…51. And his untimely death has left his wife and three sons, 27, 23 and 17 with many questions and few answers. Naturally explanations for the ending of relatively youthful lives are often beyond the grasp of mortal minds. But in their years together as a family it is evident that these remaining loved ones have each nurtured an inner strength that allows them to persevere. And further, they appear to be replete with the proper personal values to carry on into their future lives with a steadfast moral compass that seems poised to lead them each toward success.

As a homebuilder in the central Nebraska town of Kearney, Pat touched many lives. This was evidenced by the standing room only crowd of 700 plus mourners who turned out on this day to honor this homebuilder at St James Church in the cold wet wintery mix of Nebraskan March weather.

The Priest’s message was one of answer seeking and of the eternal loving embrace of the Father upon the Son and upon the returning flock. The message seemed to find its mark with the audience as best as it could under these most trying of circumstances. There were many in the church of similar youth to whom this message struck home within their personal lives and inspired thoughts of their own families. The message was clear and touched upon everyone’s private fears of mortality and their life’s affect upon their acquaintances and closest of friends and their precious loved ones. Eyes were damp and hearts were weary.

Then the priest indicated that T, the youngest son, had asked to say a few words on his father’s behalf. There was an immediate and noticeable collective stiffening and taking of breath by the entire congregation. These next few moments would be powerful indeed and our individual struggles to maintain composure would be sorely tested.

As T stood and walked onto the chancel and took the podium, everyone braced with uncertainty for the emotional blow that was about to be delivered. And as T struggled with his first sentence, the jolt was immediate. “Today I’m here to bury my hero” he began. What precious little space within the volume of this church that was not saturated with the lingering presence of these simple words was quickly filled with the muffled sounds of pulled tissues, falling tears and crumbling hearts. Drawing breath he continued on. “But I don’t consider this a good bye. I know that I will see him every day in the many homes he’s built and in the friends and family that he’s touched." T grew in strength and gallantry with each passing word. “I’ll see him in the words and deeds of my brothers and if I’m lucky, maybe someday I’ll see a little bit of him in the mirror…”

I wish that I could remember the rest. But I, together with every living soul within earshot, was struggling against the gushing of personal thoughts within and the ever expanding blanket of this extraneous barrage of emotion. And the emotive source was much deeper than his words. It seemed to emanate also from his virtual passage into manhood that transformed seemingly before our very eyes. These were words wrenched straight from his heart and delivered precisely and directly upon the wanting emotions of the large congregation of mourners. And they were delivered by this young son with the courageous fortitude of the hero himself.

I thought of my own children and our family’s unique yet parallel paths through the last quarter century. I thought of their three sons and of our three daughters all roughly the same ages. I thought of the designation of “hero” upon this departed father. And I thought of the importance of our daughter’s lives within the past, present and future lives of Denise and me. It’s interesting, this difference of perspective between parent and child. Through positive influence and mutual respect, lives lived with purpose and righteousness are then reflected back upon themselves through the actions of the other. A parent looks pridefully upon their maturing children. A young adult looks admiringly upon the aging parent. And as families evolve, countless forgotten sacrifices of the past are repaid ten-fold in the coming of age of subsequent generations of goodness and virtue.

And I thought again of these three young men and how proud their “hero” would be to see their strength and common bond on this of all days. He would see them all now as we see them individually…the children, the young men, the heroes of the future. And as composure's were regained the truth was self evident. T and his brothers had grown unquestionably to be, and remain, their hero’s heroes.