A Call After Dark

My telephone rang last night at 10:45. As I went in search of the handset, the mechanical voice announced, "Call from Kieffer, Steve." My dad. As a general rule, happy calls don't come after 9 pm. I braced myself. "Hello?" A slight pause on my dad's end, "Hey Maroon. What's doin?"

It was in the beat that he took before he spoke. It was the way my childhood nickname sounded gentle and fatherly. The dark cloud of tragedy has broken on our little family again. My beloved cousin has been issued her fate: Nothing more they can do. Cancer has spread. Go home.

Those words collected into little pools and then overflowed into the realities of loved ones near and far, each of us trying to stop the flooding. How can we bear this storm? How can we reach our arms to shield one another from the pounding force of eternity? There is nothing more we can do. We need to go home.

It seems that all too soon the drops of the storm and the oceans of our grieving will lift up our sister and deliver her to her rightful destination. She will see her own Father - the architect of the storms and the eternities and I hope we will have to courage to wave her on. Go home, dear one. Go home.

And we sure will miss you.

When You're Standing Over My Coffin

When it comes to baking, I have a very tenuous reputation. I have earned my baking cred recently, but I came into this marriage with lofty ambitions and terrible output. This might or might not have something to do with the fact that my amazing mother taught me to bake with the anti-wisdom, "If you need to measure a cup, just use a mug.  Most mugs are about 1 cup." (Happy Birthday, Mom.)

As the years have passed I have buckled down, purchased official measuring cups, and followed very basic recipes to a tee. The result has been very pleasing - to my husband, to my children, and to yours truly. So much so, that I have developed an increasing infatuation with the idea of developing my own delicious recipes and having my children love them so much that they will brag and swoon after them to their own grandchildren - long after I'm gone.

When they're standing over my coffin they'll be thinking, "We'll miss her smile, her warmth, but most of all we'll miss her killer pumpkin bread."

And I think I've done it, folks. Cue evil laughter.

I started with this recipe:
Allrecipes - Downeast Maine Pumpkin Bread
and it is really, really good.

And then I started tweaking it and after a couple of major modifications - I have refined this humble loaf into something that the kids (and husband!) lust after.

And if you think I will tell my modifications, you, my friend, are insane.

This morning, I lacked the necessary ingredients to make my version - so I had to revert to the original. Josh took one bite and said, "Mmmmmmm. This is good, but it is not yours."

I said (glowing with pride), "That's right! But it's ok?"

And he said, "It's great. But what is in yours that makes it so good?"

My answer, "Secrets."

Not quite done!

What I'm Thinking About

The Great Earthquake of 2011.

It took me a good few full seconds of shaking to figure out that this was indeed an earthquake.  After spending the first half of my life on the West Coast - earthquakes are passe to me.  My kids thought?  Whoa.  The felt like, like the whole world was shaking!

Basically, if I hear another one of my West Coast "friends" mock us about our little weenie earthquake I am going to vomit.  It's all hardy-har-har until January when their mercury falls below a tepid 40 degrees when we are going to never have to hear the end of their "cold snap."  Gag me. 

Plus.  We sustained some major damage here, folks.  Do you know how long it took me to straighten out these pictures?  Yeah.  I am still digging out.

Keep it Real

Today I had an experience that was so mindblowingly irritating that just thinking about it sends shockwaves of frustration through my wildly pregnant body. I would tell you about it, but that would mean telling you who it was, and I just can't find it in myself to do that. You see, I am painfully afraid of hurting someone's feelings.

Don't worry. It wasn't you. Ten-thousand bucks says it wasn't anyone you've ever even met or heard of before and I shouldn't be so afraid to reveal little things about people if it means telling a good story, but I am. And I think that is what stands in the way of my being an effective writer. Sure, the stuff I say might get a little guffaw here and there - but when it is a whole lot of I's and not a whole lot of why's my stories might delve into the tedious.

What good is exposition if it doesn't really expose anything? Sure, I can make things up here and there that might parallel reality, but the effect tends to be lackluster compared to the rawness of the truth. If you don't get to know me any better after investing the time to read my posts, you have wasted your time. If I said something like, "I tend to have a humorous outlook on life because growing up, my dad used to spray paint political messages on the side of his truck and drive us around town" you would tune me out - because that couldn't have really happened, could it?

So I sit at a crossroads between keeping-it-real and becoming a fiction writer. The latter of which I have absolutely no interest in. I come here seeking reflection and revelation. And just to be clear: no spray paint has ever touched the side of my dad's truck. And that, my dears, is the truth.

True Story

The following is a true story. I didn't believe it at first - but I have come to believe it to be true. I will try to change any information that might give away who this story is about, as to protect the "innocent" - and seeing as how it is an ongoing police investigation - I wouldn't want to disrupt justice. But the following is for your enjoyment:

My friend, let's call her Jamey, works for a bank in Chicago that specializes in high profile account relationships. She sees a lot of people who have very high needs: international clients, corporate relationships, sports figures... you get the picture. Jamey never really knows who is going to walk through the door when she goes to work each morning.

On this particular day, Jamey was working with a particularly complicated client. In the middle of processing all of his transactions, the client informs Jamey that he needs to excuse himself to go pray. She happily obliges and showed him to a conference room so that he could pray in quiet. She continued on with her paperwork and before long her client was back.

A bit more time went on and it became clear that a disturbance was erupting in the quiet lobby. They looked over to see an apparent bank robber running out of the office with a bag full of money and the teller crying behind the desk. Frightened, Jamey's client looked up at her and asked "What is going on?"

Jamey.... without skipping a beat looked at her client in the face and said...
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"We've just been robbed. I guess you didn't pray hard enough."


True story.

Family Food

I doubt that my family is the only one with it's own cuisine, so to speak. The dishes that make the family come alive. The ones that well-meaning family members work tirelessly to prepare for their captive audience. What I wonder, though, is if there are any other families out there whose cuisine perhaps leaves a bit to be desired. You know, the British Food of the family circuit.

Don't get me wrong. There was plenty of good food growing up. My parents grilled a mean tri-tip. My grandma put on a Christmas-eve crab feast that left you drooling. But there were some meals...

some "cuisine"...

that left you a little ill.

Let me detail some of those for you now:
1) Joe Special.
If there was ever a terrible idea for a meal, it was Joe Special. So why, oh why, do the Kieffers not allow it to die? Here's the gist: you brown ground beef in a skillet. Then you take two perfectly innocent eggs and scramble them into the beef. Then (my gag reflex is starting...) you take a box of frozen spinach and mix it all around with the beef and the eggs. And, as if this weren't bad enough, you serve it in a bowl with...

wait for it...

ketchup.

You read right. Ketchup.

My parents think this is the best meal since Beef Wellington. Listen here folks: Joe Special tastes like death.

2) Mimi's Fire-Hell Cake.
Nobody could ever do a description of this culinary disaster like my dear brother. I will let his description do the talking. (I will post the full text of the email for your enjoyment because to date - this is the funniest email I have ever received. I have made one small edit - Mom you are the only one who may catch it.)

Heres your gift,
It was pretty good. Yeah there were some weird moments like Taylor reading off of a Wal*Mart receipt and acting like someone bought "large black dildos and heated lube" when they purchased her present. Then we all joined in and Dad yelled out "Junk in tha Trunk Volume 4!" Every time it got awkward we would just start laughing. Mom said she wouldn't have made it without Amber. Well I wouldn't of made it without that bottle of E&J's Brandy. Of which was supposed to be for Mimi's Carrot/Rum cake that I happened to pretty much polish off by the time desert hit, hahaha. It was so funny! They were like, "Oh my God who did this?!" My only justification was that they conveniently placed it next to a 2 liter bottle of Coke. Now who would sit alcohol next to the other beverages if it was going to be used for cooking? Yeah I know. Also, it was the only time in the history of my life that Mimi's cake was in fact enjoyably edible. I did everyone a favor. Every other year in the past it has been coated with burnt liquor. "Mmmm, heres an idea for a desert. Lets blend up some carrots and raisins, put them into a cake, then dump brandy all over the top and light it on fire. Yeah, then we'll take a half of a teaspoon of this really delicious frosting, but not too much, because we don't want people to enjoy this flavor so much that they can't taste the blended carrots, raisins and ignited brandy."
Overall the day went really well and I am showing a six pack from all of the laughing I did.
So what did you guys all do? Play Monopoly at the Steele's and listen to the Josh Grobin Christmas album, Kidding...sort of

Ah, it feels good to reprint that every so often. Carrots, raisins, and brandy... oh my. Mimi's hell cake. #2 on my list of Kieffer culinary disasters.

3) Poppy's Bean Tacos
There is nothing bad that anyone could ever say about my dear grandfather. It feels somehow disrespectful to even mention how bad his bean tacos were. I mean, when the nicest person in the world hands you a meal that tastes terrible - you eat it. And you tell him "Thank You" and smile and swoon over every bite. It is the least you can do. But 5 years after his death, I think it is ok to say that in addition to all of his wonderful qualities - Poppy's bean tacos were terrible. Really. Bad.

The ingredients were such:
Can of Refried Beans
Thick Slice of Cheddar Cheese
Corn Tortilla
Vegetable Oil

Cooking Instructions:
Spread 1/4 cup Refried beans in the middle of the corn tortilla.
Place thick sliced cheese in the middle of the beans.
Fold and fry, baby, fry!

Then, he would take out the oil saturated taco out and wrap it in a clean, white paper towel and hand it to you with love. The cheese would be unfazed, still greasy and solid in the middle of those damn beans.

But here's the deal - Poppy's tacos gave me inspiration the other night. I made my own tacos for the kids, and after about the third time that the filling fell out, I remembered the genius of Poppy's tacos. No, it wasn't the canned beans - it was the paper towel. It held all the contents in! So I wrapped the taco (grilled chicken, mango relish, shredded cabbage, avocado, and pico de gallo - take THAT Joe Special!) and the kids gobbled it down, with no spillage.

Thanks Poppy!