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We've really got to get together sometime...

3/30/2016

And one day, you wake up and see your phone on the dresser and you yawn and poke the Facebook app to get that morning happy-jolt of connection with all your friends and you see a picture of two old buddies that makes you laugh, but you read the comment with it, and the comments below – “condolences” and “sorry for your loss” – and the laugh chokes in your throat.

My friend Sugar was killed in a motorcycle accident last week, and I just found out yesterday. We worked together for over 5 years, developing a fun relationship where we would email and text each other like two naughty students passing notes in class. An accomplished bass player and songwriter, he was in a couple of bands while I knew him (many before that) and he humbly gave me their CD’s and always made sure to send me a postcard from the Corn Palace or Germany when he was on tour. He and his wife – a beautiful and powerful singer – came to see me play and sing in the band I was in, and Sugar was always full of positive encouragement for my music, bringing me Sarah’s special tea and honey to ensure a smooth voice before a gig. He was an avid motorcycle rider, but he never made fun of the scooter I rode – the little sister to his gorgeous Harley. We got together several times outside of work, and after circumstances separated us a year-and-a-half ago, we still kept in touch, sporadically, via phone.

When does a friendship evolve from nearly daily checking-in calls, where you lift the other up, help them over an obstacle, calm them down when they’re in a fit of fury, to those people who say: “We’ve really got to get together sometime…” but you don’t, and then suddenly they're taken, and through the tears you’re left wondering why you missed that last show they played, and you find yourself lost in a picture of his handsome face and a smile that always left you feeling better. He was gentle, sincere, and yes, sweet like his name. He was a cowboy, a rock star, a whiskey-drinking friend to giggle with. You search for YouTube videos so you can hear his soft voice and admire his all-black cowboy outfit and signature shades – he was a sharp dresser on and off stage. Then you stumble across the story of the accident and see his motorcycle abandoned on the grass and the weeping starts again. And then your thoughts bleed out to all your other friends who may have fallen into that same category: “We’ve really got to get together sometime…” and feel overwhelmed that maybe tomorrow will be too late.

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Baked with Martha

3/15/2016

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My cooking philosophy is “Macht alles mit liebe,” which loosely translates from German to “Make everything with love.” But sometimes, I confess, I’m not feeling the love. Last week I was on a yo yo-coaster of emotions due to stress, depression, insomnia, so that when Friday mid-morning came and I had assembled all the ingredients to make a dessert for that night’s dinner club – Deep South theme – my anxiety flared even a little higher. Where is the love? I was screaming inside. Emergency measures were needed. In my case it was a little plastic bag with a harvest date and a skunky-smelling herbaceous-looking clump: G-13 X Blueberry Haze.

Let me say that beyond sparse experimentation in my youth, I’ve never been a recreational drug user. I don’t know if it’s my genetic makeup or personality, (“Really, you don’t smoke pot?!?” “Uh, no. I’m just like this…”) or what, but I seem to have a high-tolerance level, and pot never did much for me, so it was easy to “Just say no.” Why bother? But when my prescribed anti-anxiety medicine didn’t seem to be lifting the baby elephant so stylishly draped across my shoulders, exercise was not exorcising my demons, and I found myself suddenly weeping uncontrollably simply entering a grocery store, I considered following Alice and spelunking down into Wonderland: Drink this and it will make you small, eat this it will make you tall. Smoke this Blueberry Haze and make a Classic Banana Pudding from Paula Deen’s Southern Cooking Bible. Hilarity will ensue.

Right away I realize one of my ears is clogged, but I figure it’s due to the massive coughing fit and gagging I experienced after my two drags (post-edit: I’ve been informed it should be “hits.”) I try to clear them by plugging my nose and squishing my ears out, like scuba diving. The thought of how similar I’m feeling to diving and being underwater makes me giggle, and I realize the stuff must be working. Let the pudding making begin!

My previously 98-pound weakling math skills have become non-existent, buried in a pile of sand kicked at me by the muscle-flexing G-13 X. The first thing I need is ¾ cup of sugar, but the measuring cups on the kitchen island are mocking me: I can’t seem to make the correlation between the physical size and the actual measurement. Concentrating very hard, and proceeding with sloth-like slowness, I manage to measure out the proper amount of dry ingredients. They get the best thorough mixing in the history of mankind. I reward myself by scampering over to the office nook with glee to write down the amusing thoughts in my head, and laugh at myself because I’m doing so. I’m a clean-as-you-go type of cook, so I wash the dishes as I’m through with them, only to get distracted by the suddenly very clear spots on the toaster oven. They must be cleaned. Now. I decide I need to write this down, and add an illustration of the oven with the spots so I won’t forget.

My laughter draws our houseguest out of her room. We decide this would be a great cooking show. Baked with Martha. I tell her if I’m still laughing like this in an hour to call an ambulance. She beams a beautiful grin at me, making me feel lyrical so I grandly tell her “She’s the Devil’s Mistress with flowing mermaid hair.” I pull out the scratch paper from the cookbook where I’ve now hidden my notes and write this down. I circle “Devil’s Mistress,” draw a bold arrow to it –> “Heavy metal band name.”

As I go into the pantry I am certain that I will forget what I’m going in there for, and sure enough, I do. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I go over the recipe for the millionth time and remember it was the pan. I go back to the pantry singing “pan, pan, pan, pantry!” I pour half the pudding into the pan (pan, pan, pantry!) and read that I need “about 50 vanilla wafers…” and the world stops. I bought Mini Nilla Wafers, at the time cleverly thinking more surface area to volume types of thoughts, but now there’s a giant neon exclamation point over my head! There’s going to be waaaaay more wafers to count! I shrug my shoulders and carefully place each cookie, rounded side up, in perfect lines in a single layer across the pudding’s surface, then top each cookie with a banana slice. This seems to take a satisfying amount of… forever. I wish I was a graphic designer, or an artist, or a computer-person so I could design emoticons that express how I’m feeling: Stonicons.

I finally manage to get the banana pudding into the fridge to chill its required minimum of 4 hours, and retreat to the couch to do likewise. The pudding? Turned out great despite the obstacles.

Classic Banana Pudding
Filling
¾ cup sugar
½ cup packed light brown sugar
½ cup cornstarch
¼ tsp. salt
6 large egg yolks
4 cups whole milk
8 Tbsp. (1 stick) cold butter, cut into small bits
4 tsp. vanilla extract
About 50 vanilla wafers (or half an 11-oz box)
3 large or 4 medium bananas, cut into ¼-inch-thick slices

Topping
2 cups heavy cream
3 Tbsp. sugar

For filling, in a medium bowl, whisk together white and brown sugars, the cornstarch, and the salt. Whisk in egg yolks and ½ cup of the milk until thoroughly combined.
In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, bring the remaining 3 ½ cups milk to a boil over medium-high heat. Whisking constantly, gradually pour the hot milk into the egg mixture. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly with a heatproof spatula, until a few bubbles rise to the surface and the mixture thickens, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and whisk in the butter and vanilla.
Spread half the custard into a 13 by 9-inch baking dish and smooth the top. Top the custard with the vanilla wafers in a single layer. Place all of the sliced bananas on top of the wafers. Spread the remaining custard over the surface. Cover the surface entirely with plastic wrap (touching) to prevent a skin forming. Refrigerate until thoroughly cooled and set, at least 4 hours.
When ready to serve, prepare the topping: In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, or using a handheld mixer, beat the cream and sugar at medium-high speed to medium peaks. Spread the whipped cream over the surface of the custard and serve.

Serves 8 to 12

From Paula Deen’s Southern Cooking Bible

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We've really got to get together sometime...

Baked with Martha

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Hi, I'm Lori, a lover of feeding people. Be it with words, whimsy, or some tasty food, I want to warm your belly or your heart. Or at the very least tease out a little smile.

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