C is for Conniving

or "Melting Motives"



I am cookie monster, not a cookie master. That is to say cookies are my one of my favorites dessert, but I have never learned how to make them properly. Which is kind of strange because otherwise I know my way around a kitchen fairly well. I started to learn how to cook when I turned 18 and realized I could not live off of boxed meals. Over the years I have learned to master various dishes from kung pao chicken, egg rolls, homemade tortillas, chili con carne, and even recently, sushi. If I have a recipe, generally I can make it. Except for cookies. Actually, I don’t know how to make most desserts, but I am especially incompetent at cookies.

Part of it is intentional, but most of it is not. I never wanted to learn how to make sweets or desserts because I thought what good would it do to be able to make cookies. Nothing good comes from having 5 dozen cookies in in the house. Think about it. So, for most of my adult life I have never even attempted or looked at any cookie recipes. Why bother?

It wasn’t until this last year that I began to turn my thinking around. There are actually some really tantalizing things about making cookies. Just look at the cost/benefit analysis of cookies.

For starters, most ingredients in cookies are fairly inexpensive. I am no stranger to the way things are in this economy. I don’t have the disposable income that I imagined that I would have at this age. The good news is that for around six, maybe seven bucks, you can easily churn out over five dozen cookies. Sugar cookies you could get even get away with at five dollars. You can feed a decent amount of people for the fewest amount of duckets.

Second, cookies hold a lot of credibility. Lately it seems, I have been accused several times of being selfish, unthoughtful, and ungenerous of my time and energy. If I had I had been holding a plateful of warm homemade cookies…I doubt those things would have been said to me. It is almost impossible to insult someone who has just baked you chocolate chip cookies. Any person who has made five dozen cookies is immediately thought of as kind, warm, giving and an inspiration to humanity. I want to be that person. Especially only for six bucks.

We have an event coming up for children with special needs who can only make it to a doctor once a month. Many of these kids are low income and are in need of some cheer due to their often painful and sometimes terminal illnesses. I can make some cookies for these kids. I throw the cookie ingredients in a bowl, put my mixer in, and hit high. With the dough being made, I scoop them into little balls, place them on the tray and put them in the oven. Ten minutes later, I am ready to showcase and I open the oven to discover….uncooked cookie balls.

My cookies never melted down in luscious cookie circles. They are in the exact shape of the cookie dough that I put them in. “Hmm…that’s weird,” I think, and prep another batch for the oven, convinced the first batch is a fluke. Ten minutes later, the same results. I am starting to panic a little. I need to make those cookies for those flipping kids tomorrow but I don’t want to make their lives more miserable than they already are with my substandard cookies. I place the cookie dough balls on the baking sheet, only this time I squish them down with my hand to make them look flat. Ten minutes later, much flatter cookies arrive. The only minor problem is that my finger and handprints are visible in everyone.

Several more events crop up during the year and I find myself back at the cookie helm, trying my best to come out with cookies that melt wonderfully flat and look like every other cookie I have seen in my life. Six more attempts and six more failures. I start asking my cook friends and they all give me different advice. Am I using enough butter? Am I using too much egg? Is my oven hot enough?. I take all of their advice and come out with the same result. I start getting paranoid and have feelings of cookie inadequacy . I have a dream where I go to the supermarket and I am telling the master baker there about my problems. Just as they are about to give me their advice, I wake up. I finally ask my aunt, who can cook anything in the world, for some advice.

“They are just cookies,” she says, “what’s so hard about it?”

I look at my recipe again, this time really determined to get it right. As I am reading, I notice that no electric mixer is ever mentioned. Everything in the recipe refers to slowly mixing, slowing adding, mixing slowly by hand. I can’t even mix in the chocolate chips, but I have to “stir them in gently”. It sounds sort of frustrating to me, because I am highly impatient. I don’t have time to stand there and gently stir anything. When I make jalapeno cheese bread, I throw the ingredients in the bowl, slap it around, and let it do all the rising by itself. Gentleness is not required in bread making.

But, I am determined, so I give it go. I start stirring slowly. I crack one egg slowly. I fold it in the dough. I start to get into this rhythm trance. My hand just moving in careful meditative circles around the bowl. “You know,” I hear my inner voice say “maybe we had all of the right ingredients all along. Perhaps we were trying to move things along too fast.”

“I do have a tendency to move things too fast,” I think in agreement. “Sometimes I just have all right ingredients, but I am just moving too fast.” My mind starts to branch off in other directions while I stir slowly. “You know,” I begin to think, “Sometimes I do the same things with friendships as well. I try to move things along too fast. I find people with all the right ingredients of friendship and then I want to be best friends overnight. Most of my current good friends, it took awhile to get to know. There is no need to rush. Why do I rush things? I need to patient with friendships with in the future.”

I look down at the cookie dough. This dough look different than the others that I made. It glistens. It looks frosty and smooth. It looks very….meltable. I can feel it. I put it the oven. Ten minutes later, we are golden. The cookies come out round and inviting. These were the cookies I was waiting for. It made me start to think. Why did I keep myself from learning the art of cookie making all of these years. There was never a reason to fear cookies or cookie making. Cookie making could be a gateway for finding universal peace and internal enlightenment. Or it could also be a very cheap way to manipulate others into thinking you are a kind, generous and thoughtful person. Whichever.

Steamy, Sweaty, Smelly

Or "Picture Perfect Places"

It was after work and Paul and I were headed to the gym. I was pushing buttons on my phone when I heard Paul let out a long breath.

"Isn't that amazing," he said, " the beauty of God's creation. Look at that sky to the left."

I looked up from my phone and saw what he was nodding to. There before us, in the bluest of skies, was several large billowing clouds. They were piled high atop each other like a majestic altar of glory. Piercing through the center of the clouds were pure rays of light that refused to be hidden, but reached from the heavens on high to shine down upon us on earth.

I took in this magnificent stage set up for man's eyes to delight in…and immediately I wanted to puke. The scene was perfect. Almost a little too perfect. The scene reminded me of these small cards we used to pass out at my high school. Each card had a bible verse and inspirational messages on one side, and on the other were these amazing scenes of mountains, beaches, and forests. Each picture was meant to showcase the finest beauty of God . It was like God having all of these incredible photo ops and someone just happened to come across God at the right time with the right lighting. Thinking about it now, it sort of bothered me. Did God ever have a bad hair day in those pics?

Recently I had the opportunity to participate in a weekly feeding program for people who needed it. As I walked through the door my friend was quick to give me a warning. "Just so you know, " she said , "this place can get extremely hot, we get very sweaty, and not everybody who comes in smells the greatest." I stared at her for a moment. " I am just telling you that up front," she continued, "I feel obligated to tell everyone on their first day just so that they know what they are getting into."

The night continued on and I could see why she felt the need to warn me. The air felt barely one degree cooler than the summer air outside. The crowd was mixed, children without shoes sat with their parents, while next to them an older women sat talking to an invisible crowd. Some of the people coming in looked like they had just finished a brown bag beverage before stumbling in, while others were calm and patient, appreciative to be there. The dining area was small and mismatched tables were placed together covered with cheap plastic table cloths. Drinks were served in Styrofoam cups, and the food was a hodgepodge of items. The menu was made solely out of food that was donated that week. It was a beautiful sight.

Sometime during the fast paced serving, between putting bread rolls on a plate and doling out a scoop of salad, I noticed a sense of pervading peace and order in this place that I had failed to find elsewhere on my spiritual journey. Just being there, witnessing the entire program in motion really made me excited again. The patience and acceptance of the volunteers was inspiring. They never know who was coming to eat that day, or how many, or what condition they would be in. The idea that the program runs on no set amount of volunteers was incredible. If only two people show up to help serve fifty people, then two people will do it. If twenty people show up, then even better. Either way the food goes on, week after week, day after day. If ever there was a picture worthy of a small card, this was it. To me, it seems that God is a lot more visible in places other than beaches, lighthouses or forest clearings. I mean, I know that he likes to leave footprints up and down the coast, but it seems that the times I catch glimpses are usually not as glamorous as those recorded by others. I wish that I could send pictures to the card inspirational people and offer up a different line up for finding faith in the 2009.

If only I had my camera.


NOTE: This is actually an older post from 2008, but I wanted to include it because Bettina always laughed when she read Paul's first line in the story. She must have repeated it ten times and laughed each time. I can still hear that laugh and it makes me smile. She always wanted me to write more and wanted the best for every person she came across. Some of the posts may come out of order but I will try to keep them as chronological as possible so that they make sense.

Sun Stealing

or "Gogh-ing....Gogh-ing...Gone!"



So we are heading home from a short night out, when I spot what appears to be at least 50 sunflowers growing in a yard. I come to a quick halt and stop to admire them. Sunflowers have always been my favorite flower and seeing this many growing in our desert town is enough to make me hold my breath and pause. I look over all of the different stems holding various sized flowers. Many of stems are as tall as me. (Not that my height is hard to equal, but I am just painting a picture here.)


I can't remember when I first fell in love with sunflowers, it just has always been that way. I have tried, sometimes successfully, to grow both usual and unusual varieties. I never knew that they could come in such different colors, sizes, and even the amount of petals they could have. I am like Van Gogh obsessed with them, except I am lacking in the artistic drawing ability part that he had. Strangely enough, I also have a fondness for Van Gogh, although it is hard to say which came first. The Van Gogh or the Sunflower?

"Wow!" I say aloud to both Paul and Will, "Aren't those sunflowers amazing!". I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and both of them had to stop as well behind me. They were looking over my shoulder, checking out what caused the commotion.

"They are alright, " says Will, giving them the side eye clearly not impressed. I could sense contempt and boredom in the tone of his voice. "You know, sunflowers get much bigger than that hunny," he adds, I think giving a dirty look to one of the more modest stalks.

"Yeah, that's true." confirms Paul looking over the green and yellow, equally unimpressed.

"What!?!" I stammered, "I love sunflowers!" Then, as if to prove my proclamations of love, my hand reached out and plucked the first available flower it could reach. I could scarcely believe my own fingers, so nimble and adroit. And while I would never condone thievery of any sort, this was a different matter altogether. It was a matter of love.

I held my new prize close to my chest and placed it carefully in the cup holder for the ride home. We walked in the door and I gently layed it on the counter. I reached for the closest vase, which was clear glass and probably more apt to hold two dozen roses than one lonely and displaced sunflower. I began to fill it with water.

"Wait a second." said Paul from the bedroom, I could hear him rummaging through some boxes. "Ahh...here it is." he says and displays in his hand a sleek obelisque type glass vase. Near the rim of the vase is the letter 'B' etched in frosted glass.

"It reminds me of my mom." he says and hands the vase to me. I look down at the other vase, bulky and gawky and half-way filled with water.

"Oh," I say, "that will work." I pour the water down the drain slyly hoping no one noticed that I was going to place the single flower in such a ill equipped vase.

Paul trims the stalk and arranges the single flower like the gold that I think it is. He is a master at work when it comes to dealing with flowers. When he is done, I sit back and admire it. My prize from our shady sunflower heist. Not a bad night at all.

Eulogy

One of Bettina’s memories that she would share with us took place when she was a little girl. Due to a leg ailment, Bettina had to wear special orthopedic shoes. To say that these shoes were unattractive would be an understatement. One day, on their walk home with her sisters, Bettina made them stop. She slipped off one shoe. She slipped off the other. She found the nearest trash can and promptly deposited the both of them. When she got home and was questioned about the whereabouts of her shoes, she confidently and calmly replied, “I threw them away.” The next hour and a half was spent searching neighborhood trash cans until the shoes were found and Bettina was scolded. On the way home, the very next day, those same shoes found their way into another garbage can.

To Paul, Bettina was the living embodiment of Wonder Woman. She was strong, beautiful, just and kind. All of the kids in school referred to her as the ‘beautiful teacher’. Looking back at photographs that Dan has, you feel like you are looking at a Hollywood starlet photo shoot. Every hair in place, every outfit picked out just right. Of course, it wasn’t an accident, Bettina had such a passion for beauty and art throughout her life. A passion that she transferred to Paul. With her eyes she could take in a work of art, and with her hands she could recreate in to near perfection with such detail and patience.

She was an angel, only Bettina was never a boring angel. She wasn’t just about harpsichords, rainbows, and puppies. She was about fire, passion, and enjoying all of the good things that God gave to this earth. She had a fierce love for her husband and children. They were always her priority. She had an uncanny knack for truth. She saw through to the heart of people and knew what they were about. She saw their faults, their struggles, their insecurities. And when she found those things, she found a way to help.

Bettina spent her life in servitude to others. If you needed kind encouraging words, she gave them. If you needed someone to liven up an event she would shout and sing. She could also be comedy relief at a moments notice, bumping into things and acting silly. There wasn’t a role that she wasn’t willing to play in order to meet the needs of others. I have even heard her say some pretty choice words when the proper occasions called for it. Anything for her family.

Last Sunday, the night before Bettina passed, I wasn’t able to attend Sunday dinner with the family. As was her custom, Bettina sent home with Paul a box of goodies including a dinner for me. As I was thanking her over the phone, She informed me that Dan was on the way over to our house. She said that as she was looking in the fridge she noticed that she forgot to send over the toppings for the meal. “Oh that’s not a big deal Bettina,” I said, we could have just picked it up tomorrow. “

“No.” she said firmly. “You need it tonight, not tomorrow. But tonight. I want you to have what everyone else in the family had.

When she said it, I knew what she meant. She wanted me to enjoy all of the love, happiness, and concern that she gave to each of the boys. She wanted me to experience what it was like to grow up in a household filled with love and laughter. A place that wasn’t just a fairytale. A place that existed in the Gastellum household that she worked so hard to create. She wanted me to experience a fraction of the love that Paul enjoyed every day of his life. I am proud to say that I have and it has changed my viewpoint of what true love can accomplish in this world.

February 2nd 2009

This is a day that changed my life forever because this is the day Bettina passed. It is hard to express easily what all of this means to my life. There are so many ways she influenced who I was, am, and continue to be. Consider this entry to be a starting point for understanding who she was on this earth. I know given time, she will surface in my writing and more likely than not will still be editing some of my writing, even from heaven. I don't consider her lost or gone from my life, but I do wish she was only a phone call or visit away as she had always been before.

Bettina Marie Gastellum October 6, 1947 – February 2, 2009. Any angel in heaven would have a hard time keeping up with Bettina. Her husband, Dan, of 40 years knew she was clever, wise, loving and beautiful. Her family was the fountain into which she poured her love for her three divine gifts and their spouses, Phillip (Denise), Mario (Rachel), and Paul (Joseph). Every single day she spread joy and love into their hearts. Her life was focused on the love of others, especially her angels on earth, Sharayah, Maya, Acelya, Gabriel, and Lia. Their Abuelita meant the world to them. They hold her love forever in their hearts to keep them warm. On Earth she contributed her time to the United Way Board of Directors, Floresitas, and taught at St. Cyril’s. She is survived by her special sissy Andrea (Phillip) & her Suki Alexia, & sisters Irma, Lupita, Leticia, Anna & brother Frank (Sherie). A native Tucsonan, she left many with her words of wit and wisdom. Her kind acts for others were as plentiful and beautiful as the flowers in her nurtured garden. To say that she will be missed is like saying that we need air to breathe. Services will be held Friday, February 6, at St Cyril’s Church (4725 E Pima St). 10am (Viewing), 10:30am (Rosary), 11am (Mass). (Burial) at Holy Hope Cemetery.

Some Like it Long

or "Like. Long"

I submitted an application last week for a work summer internship. I checked the requirements online and saw that an essay was required. Sounds fun, I thought. I looked further and noticed that the essay had a limit of 2000 words. I can usually pound out 1500 words easily on a topic so I wasn’t stressed out. The only problem was that there was only twenty four hours left to submit in online. I sat down and two hours later I had something that I was proud of. It hit all of the required topics and I had bundled it neatly in a story.

I went back online and filled out the application and pasted my essay in the required area. A red warning started to flash on the screen. “YOU ARE OVER BY 6256” it blared at me. What? There was no way I was over by that much. I had word checked my paper before I submitted it. It was 1736 words. I tried to resubmit it by hitting enter again. The same red warning appeared, “YOU ARE OVER BY 6256”.

“What the cupcake?” I said out loud giving my screen a dirty look. (Okay, maybe cupcake wasn’t the exact word I used, but you get the idea.) What was the problem! I decided to look over the essay guidelines again. It did indeed say 2000. However, it did not say 2000 words. It said 2000 characters. That included punctuation.

“Cupcake!” I said again, but this time with much more force.

Well, no big deal, I thought. I am sure there are plenty of extra words hiding throughout the paper. I went through and took out any words that I didn’t think were necessary. I ran the paper through word check again. 1632 words. This wasn't going to be easy. I spent the next forty minutes cutting and slashing sentences that weren’t directly related to the topic. 1200 words.

How many more words would I have to cut? A friend of mine did the math. The essay had to be approximately 500 words. And that was if I was using mostly four letter words. At this point I had plenty of four letter words to use, just not ones that would help me. I cut out any descriptive words or adverbs. 900 words.

I know it is suppose to be this great challenge for a writer to cut out any extra information in a paper and just deliver the true meat of a story. I could rise to that challenge, I could make it happen. I went through again and started to substitute short words for long ones. 700 words. “Oh, a cupcake to your mother!” I said aloud. I spent another hour refining the paper cutting everything to the barest minimum I could imagine. 500 words.

Perfect! I filled out the online application again and pasted my newly trimmed and edited essay. “YOU ARE OVER BY 500” the computer screen replied back at me. What! I started to suspect the computer had it in for me. There was no way I could cut any more sentences, but I had worked so long on this project and I didn’t want to give up or start over. I looked over the essay again, my eyes squinting while my hand hovered over the delete button. There wasn’t a sentence that wasn’t needed. Then I realized what I had to do. I started cutting out any “The” that I saw. I was only over by 300 characters now.

What other words weren’t needed? Did I really need all of the “a” or “of” in a paper? They were sort of unnecessary, and plenty of other languages never used articles. I cut them all out. Soon I found myself cutting out verbs, punctuation, capitol letters. (I don’t think the capitol letters helped at all, but it made me feel productive). Finally, after all the alphabet carnage laid in my computer trash file, I once again tried to submit my application.

“Thank you for your submission! We hope you enjoyed completing this application and we will contact you soon!”

“Go eat a cupcake!” I yelled. I read over what I had finally submitted. It wasn’t so much an essay anymore. It was this coarse, carnal drumbeat poem. I felt like I should read it loudly by a fire. All of the ideas that I wanted to include were there, but that was pretty much it. I imagine when they read it, they will picture me in a loincloth , huddled with a crayon, scratching out my first words on a piece of animal leather.

“Me. Costa Rica. Coffee grows. Man Lives.”

Children Crashing Cars

Or "What's New is New"

My highlight of the week? The story of the six year old boy who missed his school bus. Instead of staying home and watching cartoons all day, he decided to take the keys to his parent’s Ford Taurus and drive to school. He made it most of the way, passing several cars on the street, until he finally crashed into a utility pole. At that point, he got out of the car and started walking to school. When asked later why he did it, he said that he did not want to miss breakfast or PE at school. Man! What kind of breakfast do they serve at his school! But seriously folks, I do really admire his determination and passion. I don’t think there was anything I was that passionate about as a six year old. I wouldn’t risk anything that crazy when I was six. My heart was already hardened and frozen by that age and it was nothing but tough living ever since. It was just Fozzie and I against that cold heartless world. A world where Seasame Street was filled with needles and bums and strangers who didn’t give a squat.

Okay, maybe that’s a little melodramatic, but that point is, I admire and want to emulate his passion this year. Last year, for me, was all about the people connection. Making the world smaller, creating connections, finding ways to get involved. (Or as Will says,“ Petting puppies, smiling at babies, planting trees, saving the whales, or whatever freaking charity you’re doing this week honey”.)

I think the goals this year for my resolutions are more internal. I want to learn more about the world and really try to discover things I don’t know that much about, or as I call it ‘what’s new is new’. There are so many things in the world that I really haven’t taken the time to admire yet, and I am sure there a billion things that exist that I haven’t even imagined yet. I want to fill my brain with so much ridiculous new information that by the end of the year, my entire viewpoint of the world will change. Still the same me, of course, just with different eyes.

One of the first items on my list of discovery, is classical music. I know absolutely nothing about classical music. I don’t know if I was just asleep in class, or maybe I was just sick that week we learned about it, but I really haven’t the foggiest notion of what it all means. So many people dedicate their lives and talents to the studying and playing of classical music, and I can’t even muster a couple of sentences about it. There are people that DIED for the sake of classical music and ruined their lives and the most recognizable piece for me is the Charlie Brown theme song. My hope is that by the end of the year, I can hear just two notes and say “Oh isn’t that the concerto, Summer Bees in the Park, played in the note of G, written by Watersford Richelhiemersomnd.?”. Or, at the very least, maybe just gain a better understanding and appreciation and find out what all the fuss is about.

I mentioned this quest to a recently made friend of mine. I have probably only seen this person a handful of times but I knew they had mentioned classical music as something they had an appreciation for. I was surprised when I ran in to them, by chance, a couple of days later and the first words out of their mouth was, “ I have something for you. One moment, it’s in my car.”

I looked at Paul and made a face of uncertainty. He returned carrying a hardbound book. He handed it to me and I looked it over. It was heavy and I thumbed through the pages. It had biographies of composers, timelines of classical music history, glossaries of terms and instruments. It also had eight cd’s that contained music from the whole gamut of classical treasures. It was a starting point from an unexpected source.

“This is very sweet and kind.” I said, surprisingly moved. I barely knew this person and definitely did not see this coming.

“It is actually very selfish of me.” he said.

“How so?” I asked looking up from the book.

“Well, when I was young my parents had me take piano lessons. I feel in love with classical music. I would play it on the radio whenever I got the chance and spend hours listening. I would wait for Philharmonic concerts to come on and then I would turn up the radio dial in the house . My parents and brother would give me strange looks and then just change the channel on the radio. It is has been very far and few between during my lifetime that I meet anybody who really sees and feels the beauty of the music. If I meet anyone who ever expresses even the slightest of interest, then I want to support that.”

During the next two hours he shared his passion for the music. He told stories about composers and anecdotes about their lives as if he had been there when it happened. He sang several bars of his favorite songs and discussed how women never get enough credit in classical music. Normally if someone talked about something for two hours, I would have slit my wrists already and would have been long gone. This time, however, it was charming. The book wasn’t really his real gift that night, it was his passion and excitement. I would even go as far as to say that it was noteworthy.

Resolved to Relax

It is New Year's day and I am putting the finishing touches on my resolutions for 2009. I have a whole page of things I want to change, learn, and do differently this year. Like most people, fitness tops my list. I am going to work out more this year, eat healthy and be active. No time like the present to make those healthy lifestyle choices.

Unfortunately my gym is closed today.

Instead we decide to make chili cheese hot dogs with zesty seasoned fries. I add cheese on top of my fries. I spend the next five hours on the couch watching movies back to back. I decide to get up and be productive. I make three dozen snickerdoodle cookies.

I end the day with warm cookies and a glass of milk. (Nonfat, of course). I try to imagine what the next 364 days of the year will be like.

All in all it was a great first day of the year .

Upside Down World

Or "Tragic Tales of the Town"

Sometimes I think that world has gone crazy.

Last week I was at work when an acquaintance came in. She put her bag on the counter and seemed flustered and anxious.

"Oh Joe," she said, "Thank goodness you were off yesterday! The most awful thing happened and I am so glad that you weren't here to see it!"

I turned around and gave a quick smile. "What happened?" I asked.

"Well, I was walking down the sidewalk sipping on my drink, when at least four boys on bicycles zipped past me as fast as can be. You know how those young kids are, no respect for anyone. I don't know how fast they were going, I almost dropped my drink but I jumped out of the way at the last minute and they barely missed me!" she said visibly distraught.

"That's crazy ," I said starting to frown a little, "Good thing they missed you and that you are okay."

"Well, I'm fine Joe," she continued, " but they kept on going passing people, not caring who was in their way. They weren't paying any attention. They kept plowing down the sidewalk right past the bookstore. As they were crossing that area a woman was pushing her baby across in a stroller. Wouldn't you know it, BAM, one of the kids smacked right into the stroller. The baby flew out of the stroller, onto the sidewalk. The mother started screaming and I couldn't even believe it was happening. The boy got onto his bike and he and his friends rode off as quickly as they could.!"

"I rushed over to the baby , the mother was crying and security called the ambulance. There were like eight policeman there and they had the paramedics take the baby to the hospital. I was so worried, Joe. I heard the baby was still in ICU." she said wide eyed.

I felt disturbed and deeply annoyed with time. It is amazing how quickly terrible things can happen. The difference in milliseconds it can take to destroy a lifetime is unfathomable.

"Those stupid kids." I said shaking my head in disbelief.

"You are telling me," she agreed , "I was so upset I drove around the area looking for those little monsters. Sure enough I spotted them, about half a block away, behind an abandoned restaurant. There was six of them. I didn't confront them but went back and told the police what I saw. They were so relieved I didn't try to talk to those boys by myself. Apparently they have been receiving complaints about those teenagers for the past two weeks. It was possible that at least two of them had guns.!"

"Wow," I said, " I can't believe that. That is so crazy."

"Yeah," she said, "I am glad you didn't have to see it. It broke my heart, I tell you what Joe .I have to get out of here but it was great seeing you Be careful out there. It is an upside down world."

I was trying my best to process all of this information when one of my security guard friends walked in the door.

"Hey, how is it going," I said nodding a hello, " I can't believe about all of the madness yesterday with that baby being hit by the teenagers on the bike. So crazy."

"What baby?" said the security guard.

"You know," I said, "The baby. Those teenagers who ran into the stroller yesterday in front of the bookstore. I can't believe they ran. I hope the cops caught them."

"What cops?" he said blankly.

"The eight of them that were here yesterday after the incident. The ones who called the paramedics that took the baby to the hospital. That poor mother!" I exclaimed.

"Ummmm…" he started, "I worked all weekend, and I am pretty sure that nothing like that happened. In fact, I know it didn't. There has been no crime in this area for the past six months. We haven't even had a car broken into this year. It has been so boring!" He rocked on his feet and in fact did look pretty bored. He even yawned.

"So," I said, "There were no cops, no baby being hit in a stroller. No crazy teenagers hiding nearby?"

"Nothing like that." he said "But I will take a glass of water if you don't mind."

I thought about the tragic tale she had just told me and remembered some of the other ones she had told me over the past year. The time she went to the gas pump and how she soon realized that it had been tampered with. The hose began spewing gas everywhere. Gasoline on the car, on the pumps, on her clothes. If it hadn't been for the attendant running out, yelling at her to not dial her cell phone, the whole place would have burst into flames. I remembered all of those trips she had told me about, all of those strange characters she met along the way.

Thinking back about all of the details, I couldn't help but laugh. There were elements of danger, surprise, and adventure. There were twists, turns, shady characters and stories we could all learn from. She always pulled from an endless supplies of facts and details. It always kept me interested and wondering where the story would go next. Moving in to this next year, I realize maybe the truth isn't always as important as we make it out to be. I guess I really don't care if you lie to me, just make it a good one.

Frankenstein Christmas

Or "This is how I Roll"

I woke up this morning and I knew I had to make cinnamon rolls. Christmas cinnamon rolls. Yesterday, I overheard someone saying that it was a tradition to wake up early on Christmas day and the whole family would gather and make cinnamon rolls together. I pictured them all coming down the stairs in their Christmas pajamas, smiles on their faces, fuzzy slippers on their feet. I imagined that they might break into spontaneous Christmas carols while everyone helped out making the Christmas cheer. They laughed, they sang, they ate delicious rolls together. Secretly I wished one of them would catch their pajama's on fire when they pulled the cinnamon rolls from the oven. I know I have been channeling the spirit of Ebenezer scrooge lately, but I decided to shake that off and bake some of that Christmas cheer myself.

I had no idea how to make cinnamon rolls so I googled recipes online. I was missing at least half of the ingredients for the first recipe. I checked a second one. I was only missing a third of those ingredients. I checked ten more recipes with the same results. I did not have time to go to the store and I was sure most of them were closed anyways, but I would not be deterred from creating that Christmas spirit from the warmth of my kitchen. I didn't care if I had to bake Saint Nicolas himself in my oven, but I was going to make those freaking cinnamon rolls.
I picked out a recipe which I was missing the least from. I opened the cupboards and began to browse the contents.

"Paul," I shouted ,"Could you read the list of ingredients on the computer screen?"
Paul browsed over the list.

"Joe," he said, "we don't have half of these things on the list. We don't even have eggs."

"I am aware of that, " I said "Just read me the list and I will see what we do have."

He read off the list and I searched for any of the ingredients I could find or at least anything that closely resembled them.

"You can always substitute real milk for the nonfat dry milk in the recipe." Paul contributed.

I turned and looked and Paul.

"Yes, I figured that one out." I said as I continued in the cupboards dusting off various boxes and bottles.

"Well," he said, " You aren't very bright. Plus, you hate to substitute items in a recipe. Remember the tacos."

I remembered the tacos very well. I hated to change up any recipe that I tried to make. I never subtracted any ingredient convinced that it could turn a meal into a disaster. Once I made a taco recipe that called for several ingredients that neither one of us liked. I made sure to include every last ingredient. I had one taco, Paul had half of one. The rest of the twelve went uneaten.

So there I was trying to figure out what I could use as a substitute for instant mashed potato flakes. ( What kind of cinnamon roll recipe uses instant mashed potato flakes you ask? I don't know, the kind that don't require eggs in them!). I was relieved to discover that there were no instant mashed potato flakes in the cupboard. I tried to picture mashed potatoes and what else reminded me of them. Peanut butter! Well sort of, they both were kind of creamy and smooth. I threw in a cup of peanut butter. It wasn't until I was kneading the dough I realized it wasn't the greatest idea. The dough was sticking to everything. My hands, the bowl, the counter. I was leaving a big sticky mess everywhere, but finally the dough was done.

Next, I wanted to start on the glaze. Luckily the glaze only required three ingredients: powdered sugar, vanilla extract, and half and half. I had none of those. I had regular sugar but not powdered sugar. I thought maybe if I just used a stone grinder I could crush the regular sugar to a fine enough powder. Then I realized that I had never owned or even thought about owning a stone grinder in my life. Instead I threw the sugar in the blender and hit the high button. Sure enough after about thirty seconds, the sugar was transformed into powdered sugar. Score one point for me.

The vanilla extract seemed a little trickier. I had a bottle of vanilla powder that I purchased some time ago. Maybe I could simmer that down into a concentrated syrup with some water. I checked the expiration date of the powder. 2004. I googled online to see how long vanilla powder was good for. Two years. I was seriously considering using it anyways when I remembered a story somebody told me about vanilla extract. Apparently one of the cooks in their restaurant kept getting in trouble for taking shots of vanilla extract on the job. Who knew, but vanilla extract is basically a vanilla alcohol. Maybe I didn't have Christmas baking cheer in the house, but I had plenty of alcohol. I looked in the pantry again and tried to find a bottle of alcohol that said "Merry Christmas. May your holidays be full of cheer and warmth." I stared at the Vodka bottle. Then I remembered that I had some dulce de leche liquor in the fridge. I took a small sip. It had a sweet flavor profile similar to vanilla. I took a whole shot. Perfect. As for the half and half, I just used the nonfat milk. Time to start on those new year's resolutions early. When I blended the ingredients together, it did closely resemble a glaze mix.

I waited for the cinnamon buns to cook in the oven and I started to realize it actually started to smell like a holiday in the house. (Did I mention that I partly used Ovaltine for the inside filling). I started to feel that thing they call the Christmas spirit. It was warm and enchanting.

"Hey Paul," I said "Maybe we can take a tray of these over to you grandma's party this afternoon so that your whole family can enjoy them."

I could see Paul wince and give a half smile.

"Maybe we should taste them first…" He said trailing off.

Twenty minutes later and they were done. I glazed them, arranged them, and I even tried one. Not too bad. My Christmas cinnamon rolls were a reality. Granted they were a Frankenstein, alcoholic ghetto version of Christmas cinnamon rolls. But they were mine. The house smelled great, the rolls looked decent. Christmas wasn't such a loss this year after all.

http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vaTE5NC5waG90b2J1Y2tldC5jb20vYWxidW1zL3o0NS9hemd1eTEwL3htYXMyMDA4MDAxLmpwZw==
My Christmas Cheer!
UPDATE: I later found out that the Christmas family made their cinnamon rolls from the canister, NOT from scratch