restingmotion

The Angel Food Chronicles

Near the end of my mother's visit we were invited to a party.  I was supposed to bring dessert.  I decided to make an angel food cake.  Once upon a time I made angel food cakes all the time, so often that I felt like I could whip them up in my sleep. I used my great-grandmother's recipe and it always turned out beautifully.  And then, for some reason I can no longer recollect, I stopped.

 

But this summer has been hot, and I didn't want anything fancy. I actually don't really eat dessert much anymore but I wanted to develop a small repertoire of standards that I could whip up whenever the need arose.  The only requirements were that they be both gluten-free and dairy-free so that everyone in my family could enjoy them. Angel Food cakes and chiffon cakes are dairy free by definition, so angel food seemed like a good place to start.  After all, an angel food cake only calls for roughly 1 cup of flour, how hard could it be to adapt to gluten-free flours?

 

Famous Last Words.

 

At least I knew enough to make a test cake early in the week, before the party.  So I pulled out a cookbook by a famous baker looking for an angel food cake recipe.  Why not use my grandmother's recipe?  Well, I don't have it written down.  It is still in my head, and I remembered the basic proportions, but I've not been feeling really confident about baking lately and I wanted some kind of official guidance. I didn't trust my gut.  So I defaulted to a famous baker, who shall remain unnamed. 

 

I should have trusted my gut.  I made the cake following famous baker's recipe.  The eggs did not rise as high as I expected when I was beating them, but I suspected my memory was faulty. The cake went in the oven and looked beautiful as it was baking but did not rise anywhere near the top of the tube pan. When it was done I removed it from the oven, placed the cake, in the pan, upside down over a wine bottle to cool, and sat down at the dining table to talk to my mom. 

 

At some point during our conversation, perhaps about 15 minutes after setting the cake aside to cool, we heard a soft swoosh and thump, more like a floomph sound, and looked up.  The cake pan was still on the bottle, but all around it, on the counter, was a lump of sticky egg whites and sugar, a pseudo-cake, almost an angel-pudding cake.

 

Such a thing had never happened to me before.

 

I probably should have taken pictures of the process and the various stages, but at that point I didn't yet realize it would be a process.

 

I pulled out all my cookbooks that had angel food cake recipes.  I spent some time on the web researching problems with angel food cakes and I realized the cake had probably not cooked long enough, although it was also possible the proportions were off. Most recipes, and Michael Ruhlman's Ratio agreed. My memories of my great-grandmother, Mamie's, angel food cake recipe were right on target:

 

Mamie's Cake: 12 egg whites, 1 1/2 cups sugar, 1 cup flour, 1 teaspoon vanilla, 1 teaspoon cream of tartar, 1/2 teaspoon salt.

 

Ruhlman's Ratio: 12 ounces egg whites, 12 ounces sugar, 4 ounces flour, 1 tablespoon lemon juice, 1 teaspoon vanilla, 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar, 1/2 teaspoon salt.  The weights correlate pretty closely to my grandmother's recipe.

 

But the next two cakes (or was it three?) also fell.  I baked the cakes longer and longer but it seemed to make no difference.  The outside of the cake would be overdone while the middle remained too sticky, too sweet.

 

So I thought I would google gluten-free angel food cakes and see what I came up with.  You might think I should have done that first, but I disagree.  My experiences starting with gluten-free blogs and websites are generally not good.  Not surprisingly, I found some pretty strange angel food cake recipes.  Although there were some that worked with classic ingredients and proportions, there were many that did not.  And the photos of the resulting cakes all looked lovely, but many seemed a little dense, like grocery store angel food cake, which I have always felt is on the heavy side, and not as airy as an angel food cake should be. All of the recipes added xanthan gum to the flour blend though, and I thought this was worth a try. 

 

But I didn't have any xanthan gum.  I had guar gum.  More googling.  They are interchangeable.  They are not interchangeable. One may need to combine them depending on the desired result and the humidity.  My head was beginning to spin. I went to Kroger. They only had xanthan gum in a pint sized bag.  At 1 teaspoon per cake I may have a lifetime supply.

 

The next cake rose higher and looked more like it should.  The cake tester was clean, but the cake still fell out of the pan.  This cake however had better texture and seemed more cake-like.   So for the next version I included the xanthan gum and increased the cream of tartar from Ruhlman's 1/2 teaspoon to the full 1 teaspoon my great-grandmother had used.

 

This cake was beautiful, it rose above the top of the tube pan in the oven and I was thrilled.  But when the time was up and I removed the cake, it had fallen, and now only went about 2/3 up the sides of the pan. My heart was heavy, but I propped the pan up on the wine bottle and left it to cool anyway.  It did not fall out of the pan.  And the resulting cake was good, with good flavor.  The texture was a little dense, but not unpleasantly so, only slightly more dense than those store-bought angel-food cakes of memory (I haven't' actually eaten a store bought cake for many years).

(almost good enough)

 

I realized that the last two cakes had both risen higher than the top of the pan and then fallen back.  I wondered if this had been part of the problem all along, and part of the reason the early cakes had not quite baked through.  I seemed to recall that perhaps gluten-free flour blends were lighter by weight than wheat flour.  I wondered if I just needed more flour.

 

So I weighed a cup of my gluten-free flour blend.  It weighed 4 3/4 ounces. I decided this theory had merit.

 

Yesterday I made another cake and used 5 ounces of flour instead of 4.  It was beautiful, and it is this cake that is at the top of this post.  I could have turned it over so it looked prettier.  But really I was just going to have one slice and ditch it, until I thought of giving it to my step-daughter and grandson.  Is it rude to give away a cake with one piece missing?  I hope not. 

 

For a gluten-free angel food cake the proportions are: 12 ounces egg whites, 12 ounces sugar, 5 ounces gluten free flour blend, 1 teaspoon xanthan gum and 1 teaspoon cream of tartar. I used the technique and flavorings in Ratio but really, every book I own uses the same technique.  I also like the way the lemon juice brightens the flavor of the cake and slightly softens the sweetness. I will continue to use lemon juice in the future.  It is possible that you will not need the xanthan gum if your flour blend already includes it, but I would make a test cake first to be sure. I personally prefer blends that do not include xanthan gum, as it is easy enough to add when needed.

 

So now I have 1 gluten-free, dairy-free dessert under my belt, a dessert that is good enough that  I can take it anywhere.  I have also reached my limit with sweets for a while. Perhaps in a couple of months, when the weather is cooler, I will be ready to expand my repertoire

Exploring Garden Photos

Yesterday I noticed that another one of the new daylilies was in bloom so I took a little time to play with my camera. 

As this is its first season, and there are still lots of empty spaces... or is it just that I prefer overstuffed gardens (and understaffed interiors).  Anyway, I am at this point more interested in the close up shot, and it is something I struggle with.

My brothers would probably not be surprised at this.  During our teenage years, when they were fascinated with photography, they refused to let me borrow their SLR cameras as my photos were always blurry.  I know now that my eyes don't track together well, and that I am better focusing at an angle than straight on.  But I haven't yet figured out how to translate this to taking photos with manual settings.

 

It is quite possible that my photos will simply be better if I let the camera make the decisions, but I still feel driven to make the attempt to learn how to use the camera, even if that knowledge proves to be more intellectual than practical in my case, and only leads me to further appreciate the work of others, and the automatic focusing ability of my camera.

But then again, if the old adage that "everything worth doing is worth doing well" is to hold true, we must also remember than anything worth doing usually has a learning curve, and long before we get to "doing well" we must suffer through the "doing badly" part.

The crape myrtle and roses are blooming, and happy as I am with the white flowers of the foundation shrubs in front, which allow me a far greater latitude in choosing annuals, I am thrilled at the pink crape myrtle in the side yard and the possibilities for greater color chaos in the more private spaces.
 

Early Morning

Imagine sitting in the cool soft morning air, the light brightening with the rising sun, the dew still sparkling on the leaves.   The cool blooms of the hydrangea glow refreshingly in the soft light. You smile, put down your cup of coffee, and head off for your morning walk.  It is 6:30 AM.

 

That was yesterday.  Today the sky is hazy, the air is heavier with humidity, and although the temperature is still only in the 70s, the word refreshing does not come to mind.  It is 6:30 and you are not particularly looking forward to this walk, but you go anyway. 

Upon your return the light reflected on the hydrangea seems like a cool breeze welcoming you home.

Babble Babble

I've been sitting at my desk not blogging this morning, simultaneously striving and yearning for structure and routine, while at the same time struggling with my own need to upset my own structures and the resulting burst of energy followed by the exhausted let down that leaves me unable to do anything much. I suppose I just have to accept that this is a significant part of who I am, and stop struggling against it. Those exhausted fallow periods are also great germination chambers.  But what do I write about? And when and how much?  How much is shown? How much is hidden?  Well, even when it seems the world is laid bare, the process of writing it is a bit of a screen, a letting go and an organizing of something but never the full thing in and of itself.

When I was young I would sometimes write in my journal that everything written there was simultaneously a lie and the truth.  I suppose as I grow older, this seems even more apparent to me, that what I think and see and believe and write seems so true to me at the moment and yet, as soon as it is thought or written, my perspective and my understanding begins to shift.

Actually, much of the morning I've been sitting here at my desk, in front of my computer, not blogging, because a visiting cat was curled up in my lap and I hated to disturb her.  So my thought were allowed to wander.  And this cat, who has been sweet and friendly and curious since she arrived, this cat who has sought out affection, but warily so, stood on my lap to be petted and eventually relaxed just a smidge and lay down and curled up into a mostly contented ball. 

It was this very state of wary contentment that shifted my intentions this morning and left my thoughts whirling.  This cat on my lap is very sweet, and she was somewhat contented.  But she is not in her house, she is not with her people, and although she is safe and warm and fed, we are strangers here. And that she curls up on my lap at all seems almost remarkable. 

And I am left thinking about process, thinking that much as I adore a good project, life is more process than project.  I am left thinking that if we allow ourselves to believe otherwise we are only fooling ourselves. And, since I am sitting at my desk, thinking about what to write, I find myself thinking about this process called blogging. Is there a happy path between interior and exterior worlds? Is there a middle ground between pretty pictures and shiny surfaces and shifting sands of perception and understanding?  Why bother? Is there a safe road between clinging to routine and a defined structure, and allowing ourselves to lean in and seek whatever comfort we can in a world that changes around us despite our best efforts to contain it?  What is this need to write, to share, to dissect, to explore the boundaries between sharing and hiding?  I truly don't know.

Visiting miss kitty loves to sit in the windows and look out at the world.  Occasionally she wanders from window to window. If I am in the room, she will utter a plaintive meow.  I wish I could tell her that this is only temporary, that her people will come for her soon. But of course I cannot.  I suppose, in some ways, blogging is my way of looking at the world through a window of words, not that I am crying out for the people I have lost, but it is a way of attempting to make sense of what I see and sometimes of what I don't see, and attempting to communicate and share that journey.

And now my own cat, my sweet Moisés is here demanding his share of lap time. And perhaps that is all the ending I need.  There are no answers today, just transition and purring and what comfort we allow ourselves to find.

Catching Up

My mom has returned home to Garland, TX, and I am catching up and settling back into my life in its normal mode.

A part of that process of settling has involved just sitting back and appreciating life, what I've been given, and where I am now.  As Tikka and I return home from our walk, I am continually filled with joy at the sight of something as simple as the green lawn, and the flower beds in front of my house. The last two mornings I have also reflected on those morning hours spent outside while mom was here, how pleasant it was to be out digging and planting, mom sitting nearby with Tikka on her lap, and those pleasant conversations.

There is nothing particularly special about my gardens:  the original plants that came with the house have been rearranged, a few new plants were brought in by the landscapers, and I've filled in with pretty generic annuals mostly sourced from Lowe's. It is a young garden; plants need to grow into their space and much filling in is still required.  But it is in many ways a far cry from my previous garden, partly due to the more formal nature of these front beds but also simply because of its generic mass-market roots.  In Hyde Park I sought out the esoteric and the unusual. Here not so much, at least not in front, in the public face of my garden. 

But its not really about what is in the garden.  My joy stems from the fact that it is green and growing, instead of an ugly flat expanse of clay and patchy grass.  No, that is not quiet true.  My joy stems from the fact that it is green and beautiful and growing, and that I have spent time in that wet grass playing with Tikka and digging holes in the dirt, and some of those green things I have planted have thrived and become beautiful, even though others have not.

 

When mom visited the first time, this was a sad place. The original landscaping of the yard had been terrible and it was the worst yard on the street, but I hadn't had the time or energy to address it. Inside was no better.  The furniture was still pretty much as it had been arranged the first days we moved in, with only a few very minor changes.  The house was still in many ways the house we had moved to so that George could die in peace.  We moved here because our grandson was here, we moved here to be near Owen and his family, so that George could spend time with his grandson, and so that Owen could get to know his grandpa.  Our first year and a half here was shaped by the ever-changing landscape of decline and impending death.

When mom visited me in Knoxville the first time, this was still a house of loss and grief. I was not particularly comfortable here, the house had been purchased to meet a need that was no longer present. Six months after George's death, there were still moments when I wanted to sell everything and walk away. But of course that wasn't the answer.  We cannot walk away from loss; we cannot walk away from our problems; we must embrace them, and nurture them and allow them to flower at their own pace.

When I asked mom to come visit this spring, I told her she should see the house, that it was my house now, and I was happy here.  A simple rearrangement of furniture had moved the place from something cold and uncomfortable, the sleekly modern at war with quirky family heirlooms and antiques, from something that accented the fault lines of transitional space into something more harmonious,  a place where the old and the new met more comfortably. A place that honored the rounding off of sharp edges both in the house and in myself. And she came.  She came for a month and this sense of  harmony held.  Not a single one of those sharp edges poked out to jab at us unexpectedly.

By now you can probably surmise that I am not actually writing about the house or the yard, or even in a way, about Mom's visit.  I am writing about all of those things and none of those things. Because what I have been given in this life, and where I am now really have nothing to do with things but with attitude and grace.  Like that house in Hyde Park where I wanted unusual plants, we tend to think of our worth, of who we are, as defined by our careers, what we amass, what we think, who we associate with, and so many things that really have only partial relevance to who we really are.  That doesn't mean we can ignore the world, or even should ignore the world.  Nor does it mean we should throw everything away and live in a cave.  I suspect that living in a cave has nothing to do with who most of us really are.  But that we need to learn to relax and accept, we need to learn to rely on that internal sense of self, and learn to love that self and honor it, rather than the stuff of life. The stuff of life is nice.  But it is not who we are.  It is not what is important.

While mom was visiting I let a lot of things slide.  Not everything.  I did what I needed to do, did what I what I was asked to do, what was required, but didn't really go the extra-mile in terms of my obligations outside of being here with my mom and enjoying her visit. I am behind on many things, and although they are not unimportant, at the time of my Mom's visit, they were less important and could wait.  I realized that extended time with my mom, extended time, when other obligations could be carried lightly, is a gift.  Whether I accept and enjoy that gift or rail against it is my own choice. 

It seems to me I wasted a lot of time and energy when I was younger fighting against the perceived weight of obligation.  I struggled with my mom's extended visits, simultaneously resenting the compounded pressures of work, mom, spouse, family and community.  I let all of those outside pressures define me to myself, rather than letting my inner self guide and define me, and regulate the role they would play in my life.  I realize it wasn't really my life I was worried about, it was expectation.  I worried and fretted about living the life I felt I was expected to live, the things I was expected to accomplish and accumulate and do, and yes my Mom's expectations weighed as heavily as the expectations of my career, and the expectations of every other role I played in my community.

And so I am grateful.  It seems I needed this time, we needed this time.  I am also sure I have neglected something, that something that should have been done remains undone.  But increasingly I see that life will always remain undone, that nothing is finished, and all I can do is listen and hope and take each moment as it is offered to me. Hopefully, I mostly  manage to do what I need to do. Hopefully, when I fail the slack is taken up elsewhere. Most of all however, I hope that I can manage, at least occasionally, to  enjoy the gifts that are given to me in and of themselves, without expectation, without guilt, simply as the gifts they are.

Mittens for Mom

Mom's mittens are finished.  She likes them and they fit.

Since my mother is allergic to all animal fibers, these were knit using a fingering weight cotton and bamboo yarn with a touch of nylon to keep them from stretching out, Panda Cotton Solids by Cristal Palace Yarns. The pattern is "Zebra Long Fingerless Mittens" by Jorid Linvik.

I had forgotten how much I enjoyed two-handed stranded color work and may knit myself a pair of fingerless mittens as well, although I don't particularly think I will use the same pattern. I will probably also use wool.  I could have used a pair or mittens this past winter, and I'd much prefer to knit my own rather than purchase something, even if they won't be worn every year. But I don't have yarn or plans at the moment, just a vague idea in my head. 

 

 

Morning Musings

As I stood in the front yard yesterday evening, admittedly a little frazzled, I looked up and saw the gorgeous sky.  Almost immediately I calmed.

All those lists running through my head:  the things I still needed to do that day, the things that I was neglecting, even, the things I had failed to do, slipped away into the quiet.

I realized that everything will happen in its own good time.  That doesn't mean I should abandon everything; some organization and planning and energy are always necessary.  But it does mean that there is time for rest, time for sunsets and sunrises, for busy-ness and repose. 

There have been days I look at the mail piling up on my desk and chastise myself.  But then I remind myself that I do something every day.  I meet the immediate needs.  Then of course my mind moves on to the other things I am not doing:   the blog post I want to write about a book that has helped me to coalesce so many random thoughts, the blog post that doesn't want to be written -- yet.  I look at my distracted mind and tell myself to focus.

But why?  A little lack of clarity is beneficial. And time with my mom is precious.  Truly would I rather be sitting at my desk muddling over words when I can sit with my mom, chatting, knitting, just enjoying her company?  How many times do I get to spend 3 weeks with my mother anymore?  Not often. Admittedly I don't visit for long stretches of time, And this is only her second visit here in 3 years, Actually probably only her second visit in over a decade.  How much time is lost doing things that hold no value in our hearts, sacrificing attention to those we love for things that truly do not matter? Far too much I fear. And how do we know what matters if we do not take time to rest, to listen, to know our own hearts?

To everything there is a season.  To every day there is a dawn and a sunset, a time for doing and a time for resting.  And increasingly I have come to accept that part of myself that will cast things and projects aside for people: for what is the measure of our lives beyond our touch on the lives of others?

It is morning again.  I have another day with mom, the first day in this last week of Mom's visit, and once again my priorities are shifting, thoughts left unfinished.  But then nothing is truly finished as long as there is life to be lived.

Morning Walk

It was the sky that captured my attention first this morning while Tikka were taking our walk.

It was that very clarity that calmed me, its very painterly aspect, and the broad generous strokes of light and cloud. It was as if the sky was beckoning me to welcome in a new day.

The last few mornings, last few days actually, I have been distracted and unfocused.  I have been unable to still my wandering and raging thoughts, to accept the quiet, to just be in solitude with the world.  Perhaps I was just more rested this morning, and so more willing to ease into calmness, ease into being.

When I reached the top of the hill, I notice that hint of gray along the horizon was fog wrapping itself around the peaks of the hills and ridges, and as the sun rose, it gradually thinned and lifted, like ghosts, or wisps of thoughts and dreams, not lost forever, but like memories, resting along the fringes of thought.

And we walked.  Quietly in the early morning air.  Birds singing, admiring the flowers, the drops of dew on the morning grass, the combined scent of honeysuckle, and magnolia punctuated by grassy greenness.