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oddness: a celebration

I’ve been seeking out weirdness lately, more even than usual.

In advance of his nationwide temper tantrum here in the U.S., in which the president shut down several government agencies yet again, I checked out a tidy pile of books to read over the holiday. So far I’ve read Eric Idle’s Always Look On the Bright Side of Life, which was just exactly as charming and irreverent as I would expect of the author, as well as a rereading of Gaiman’s lush, eerie The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

I’m also watching my beloved Doctor Who, most recently ‘The Christmas Invasion’ and clips of the Slitheen. And I am curiously drawn to the music of Donovan. My morning yoga is to Jersey Thursday and Epistle for Dippy.

-A sortabiography from a Python, probably the most subversive comedy troupe in history.
-A novel by another guy who spins lyrical hauntings on paper.
-A series that has no problem featuring alien spaceships crash-landing into the Thames.

There’s comfort in weirdness for me, counter-intuitive though it seems. Why would I not reach out for the routine? The predictable?

Not surprisingly, all of the above are products of Mother England. I’ll say with no qualms that they know comedy better than anyone else. I once heard that comedy is a moment of chaos remembered with fondness. And the UK is famously known for being a logical, (what I call) neck-up culture.

But the human heart can only be repressed for so long. Then out comes expression—in a rush and a flood, of that torment—in song and words. And it’s often beautiful. Or quirky. Or hilarious. Or all three and more.

This year has been pretty ghastly. Reread the first paragraph, or just guess, who has been getting the goat of so many Americans since late 2016.* Maybe my attraction to the odd, especially now, is about connecting with others who have experienced torment, and not only were able to express it, but came out of it all right as well. Maybe they’re my conduit, something to channel through until sanity is restored. My keystrokes to the universe’s ears. You listening, Universe?

Edible weirdness counts, too: a few days ago I made a chocolate fruitcake. Fruitcake (a sort of plum pudding) is still popular in the UK. But here in the colonies it’s largely a joke. My dad used to make one every year in October, and let it cure until Christmas. But I never went for that type, with its luridly colored candied fruit and enough rum to stupefy the Sigma Alpha Epsilon house an hour after their probation was lifted. Admittedly that kind of fruitcake is jokeworthy.

I’ve made several kinds, from a light-colored Martha cake, to a traditional English cake, to Irish and Blasket Island cakes, with real dried fruit and light touch with sugar and spirits (that’s my reticence in action). And they were all different and all wonderful.

This is a Nigella recipe. It’s full of raisins, chopped prunes, dried figs, ground almonds, and orange peel. I loved my little sliver yesterday, and true to any spiced cake (and any chocolate cake, for that matter), it will improve with age.

*Hit the buzzer when you get the right answer.



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out of the darkness

My college roommate Terry worked part time at our campus health center. Sounds fairly innocuous until you hear the rest: we went to Gettysburg College, which sits at the edge of 500-plus acres of unlit Civil War battlefields; we all knew dozens of ghost stories that are set there; she worked overnights; and—cheeriest of all!—her desk was right next to the window that faced them. Meaning from dusk to dawn, you’d better believe the view through that window was a solid, impenetrable, terrifying black.

(Reader: Wow, Merry Christmas to you, too, Maris. Where are you going with this?)

This time of year wants to be cheery, but there’s a dark side as well. We might as well admit it. The 1963 television special ‘Rudolph’ has a palpable melancholy about it that only dissipates in like the last seven minutes when Burl sings and the Misfit Toys get dropped from the sleigh with the aid of umbrellas. I suppose it didn’t help that it aired a month after JFK was killed. There’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, when beautiful little Margaret O’Brien’s eyes shine with tears as Judy sings. There’s I’ll Be Home For Christmas, anthem from World War II. My aunt decorated her tree with blue glass ornaments her whole life, echoing the past when many did the same, remembering those who could not make it home for the holiday, and those who never would again.

I love Christmas, but it’s not always happy; and if we’re forcing our families to imitate the people in Target commercials and eating fruitcake when we’d rather not*, we’re just papering over the cracks. Besides, there really is an eerie gloom this time of year which I quite like. People used to tell ghost stories around now; they believed the solstice was a time of transition, when the doors to other worlds were ajar, when anything—good or bad—was on the table. Dickens knew this, and managed to make the world’s greatest ghost story at once cheerful and enormously poignant in its sadness. I’ll go so far as to say the interplay of yin and yang is why it does its job so well, and has stayed relevant.

For me, this year has been like The English Patient: long and preposterously maddening, although the cast was pretty good. For much of the country, the year been like a four-hour wait to go on Space Mountain, only to have the moving seats jam and render us stuck in a freakishly colored head fake.

And I’m thinking of Terry’s view out the health center window. Which is where we all are right now, where we all are at the end of every year. No one can predict the future, and that ambiguity looks awfully black, leaving our imaginations to run amok until dawn.

But I’m ready for next year, and God knows I’m working toward an upswing. I’m sending love and good vibes to those compelled to paper over the cracks this season. And I’m looking for a Here Comes The Sun moment next year, like my shot of dawn over the horizon below. From now on our troubles will be out of sight. Better days for all of us.

*Oh, shush. It’s great as long as it’s made with real fruit. And mine is! Ha! Stay tuned for pics, which I’ll post just as soon as I actually make one.

IMG_0563 resized

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thanks for sugar

That’s my first statement, and I stand by it. To be honest, I’m actually eating a lot less sugar these days in the stuff I bake for myself, but I’m making it up in spades with what clients are ordering from me. The autumn 2018 tally so far:

Five cakes
Six pies
Cinnamon-poached quinces (foraged. The fruit, not the cinnamon.)
Beach plums (foraged)
Mulberries (foraged)

I love to do kitcheny things for people, and I’m grateful they ask me to do it. The great actor Hugh Laurie once said he was grateful not to do good work, but for the chance to do good work.

My friend Dee has asked me to bake three out of those five cakes and generally lets me run wild when it comes to decoration. So this fall I’ve gone truly wild, using marzipan to make things that grow under and around and behind the diva flowers that always seem to get center stage on cakes. I like showcasing the Sutton Fosters* of the natural world. The Celine Dions get Vegas contracts and their own golf courses. That’s plenty.

My two personal policies when baking: 1) it has to taste as good as it looks, and 2) it can’t look like something you could find in the freezer chest at Baskin-Robbins. I have always wanted to recreate the wild plants I see when I’m foraging, to give them their chance to shine. The below is a chocolate-pistachio torte layered with chocolate ganache and Morelle cherries soaked in almond liqueur, and topped with more ganache. The design is my homemade almond marzipan (echoing the liqueur) in fall fruits, berries, and flowers: bittersweet, tiny Seckel pears, crab apples, thistle flower and down, and mums (peeking on the side).


Another order was pies delivered to my friend Sandy, who was going to a dinner party. He’s a straightforward guy, lives in plaid flannel, and does not pull his punches. Every August for his birthday I make him an angel-food cake because that’s what what his mom made him for a birthday cake when he was growing up. He tells me that he doesn’t slice it, but tears off wedges with his fingers when he walks past it. The below are like him: fuss-free apple pie and pumpkin pie with squash I baked myself. I haven’t heard any complaints, so I can take that as a thumbs-up from him.


Remember the part about eating a lot less sugar myself? Yeah, I blew that off on Thanksgiving. How is anyone supposed to stay both virtuous and sane? Aren’t they diametrically opposed? These are little chocolate truffle cakes made with 14 ounces of semisweet Ghirardelli chocolate and one tablespoon of flour. You’re supposed to put them in the fridge overnight in order to promote maximum fudginess; and like a good girl, I did as I was told. They were a typhoon of chocolate. And tomorrow is Chocolate Day, so I get to eat another one.


*If you said, ‘Who?’ then that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Theatre people know her. She is pretty typhoony herself. Here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYmjDSpGmtE


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Tangled but edible. (Don’t sue me, Disney. Power to the mouse.) 

Today, since I was mostly stuck inside during a nasty nor’easter, was a catch-up day for me. I repaired a chipped plate, vacuumed, did some washing*, and went for a walk to the beach once it cleared up a bit in early evening. I’m not going to lie to you and say I didn’t also watch an enormous amount of Python sketches, but I did okay.

The constant sound of the wind and the constant grey of the greyness started to seep into my skull, though, and when I get that way I need a challenge. And besides, I was hungry. So I baked a challah, with four strands instead of three. I’m crap at math and the pictures in my Joy of Cooking could stand to be a little bigger, but braiding four was fun—really fun, so obviously I had to go on YouTube to see how high I could go strand-wise. Looking forward to making some really tricky ones this winter.

Last summer I also collected different wild botanicals—honeysuckle blossoms, mint leaves, raspberry leaves, and lilac blossoms—to try as tea once the weather got cold, and dried them one by one on paper napkins on top of my radiator cover. Tonight I dipped into my stash for the first time. Lilac, and it was great. Next time I’ll sweeten it with a spoonful of one of the several gallons of flower sugar syrups that take up the entire top rack of my freezer. Hoping to get through them before I am old enough to succumb to a diet of prunes and Metamucil.


*My mother’s 52-year-old peau de soie wedding dress and train. Still working on getting the mustiness out. I had great success de-mustifying the gowns of my youth by following the advice of a costumer friend, who called it an old Shakespeare Festival trick: she instructed me to buy ‘the cheapest ratgut vodka’ I could find and spray the gowns with it, inside and out. It dried quickly and eliminated any odor. Not so with the dress and train. Plan B involves sealing them in a bag filled with kitty litter, which is supposed to absorb odors. Watch this space for updates.

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20180807_122655*Not really—the below all took some doing—but that title’s the name of the bakery I would have if I were inclined to open a bakery.

I had three cake orders last month in quick succession. Show-and-tell time!

The first, up top, was an order placed by power-couple actors Jill Eikenberry and Michael Tucker, from the TV show back in the late eighties, L.A. Law. My friend Adam is company manager at a theatre where I work and where they’re performing, and asked where he could get a good devil’s food cake. I said, ‘From me.’ 🙂 It was to be a birthday cake for two actors—men—so I steered away from the frilly stuff. Two layers of devil’s food with fluffy chocolate buttercream between them and around the perimeter, and Sacher torte ganache on top. All homemade.

IMG_0443The next was placed by my friend Dee as a birthday cake for her niece, who was turning 40 and loves chocolate and flowers. I have always wanted to do a seasonally decorated cake, so I had some serious fun here. Not going to lie; it took a week, all told. But it was fun, and I learned a lot. Lessonus maximus: Don’t think you can transport a three-layer cake without cracking the top, because you can’t. Once the smelling salts took effect I told Dee to grab a knife at the party and smooth out the top. It was fine, thank God. The above was shot pre-crack. Three layers of chocolate-buttermilk cake, with the first layer filled with vanilla bean pudding, the second with raspberry jam, and covered with more of that Sacher torte ganache. Decorations are marzipan late-summer flowers and fruits. From top: raspberry flowers and raspberries, dahlia, hygrangea blossoms, and black-eyed Susans. And dig the figs. 🙂 We’ll call this virtually homemade: the jam I bought, and everything else I made.


This last is another Dee order. Birthday cake #3, for a girls’ beach weekend. Another devil’s food, but this is brushed with coffee liqueur, filled with chocolate buttercream, topped with a creamy chocolate ganache, and decorated with Graham cracker ‘sand’ and marzipan flip flops.

I came home after deliveries to find every surface of my kitchen edged in butter, chocolate, or both. Which is a happy problem to have.


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down the rabbit hole

My sister recently took the family china home with her. My great-grandmother had brought it with her on the ship from Germany, in a barrel, in the late 19th century.

The pieces below are our baby dishware. I think I feel the way my sister did when she put the new-old china in her own cabinets. You say to yourself, what are these doing here? They don’t belong here. They belong at Mom and Dad’s. And the realization of why you own them now sweeps over you. And it hurts.

Last Thursday I spent the day at my dad’s house with my sister, trying to get it in some semblance of order for a move, which was kind of a fool’s errand; it’s 6000 square feet and every drawer, closet, shelf, and cabinet is filled to capacity—the treasures and detritus of 50 years. A woman I grew up with put it succinctly: ‘Our parents’ generation were great accumulators.’

But it was more than that. Going through a parent’s house is a Category 4 of memories—from both ends of the spectrum. Truthfully? I was there not just to make the move easier. My childhood…let’s just say it was not all ice cream. I wanted to salvage some good, some tangible evidence of purer times. To extract the diamond chips from quite a bit of sallow earth. I found some.

That night I ate blueberries from the little bowl below. It was the first time anyone has eaten from it in at least 45 years. I remember eating cereal from it when I was very tiny, and watching those rabbits around the perimeter chasing each other endlessly. So many years have passed since I last saw them. So much of my life has been about chasing—sometimes the right thing, sometimes the wrong; anxious thoughts looping around the creamware of my head, trying so hard to make sense of stuff that never made sense, and never would.

I’ve learned a lot since I last saw these. I chase a lot less, and have learned, for the most part, to let rest what needs to rest. I can be the adult now. And I’ve learned not to judge all the time I spent chasing. What for? I did my best.

These bunnies remind me of when the world was new, and of my life since then. And I can guard, and regard, that time, all of it, with tenderness. They’re safe at home now.


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One fine day back in the early 13th century when I was an art student, my professor walked into class with an innocent smile and said this week we were going to draw with no particular result in mind. No still-life in front of us. No model posing. We were given a general and slightly vague concept to play with, but that was all.

Have you ever sprinted through LaGuardia, gotten in line to board, and made it to the front of the line—only to have the flight attendant tell you in very gentle language, lest you freak and send your carry-on and Sigg water bottle* flying, that you’re at the wrong gate? We were classically trained college kids. At this news, we looked like a dumbfounded still-life ourselves.

She said it’s not the end result that matters right now. It’s how you got there and what you learned along the way. Just let your hand do what it will, she said. Don’t worry about the result. Just draw.

Don’t…what…how am I supposed to…that’s HARD!

I still-lifed at my Strathmore pad for a few minutes. Like everybody else. Then I drew.

Then in Japanese ink I painted.

Do this enough, just let your hand move, and your mind stops chasing something in dim light Down the Road. It stays where it is, in the Now. After a while of this lunacy even the the nervousness subsides. And I ended up doing some surprisingly weird things—a cheerful by-product of the exercise.

Long story long, that’s how I’ve been feeling in the kitchen lately. I keep poring over my collection of recipes that I’ve culled from newspapers and magazines and chocolate-chip packaging and making them, only to want to make something again the next night. And I learned something: I love the food. But lately…it seems beside the point. I need to be making the food more than eating the food. This is evidenced by how full my freezer is right now.

Staying in the moment has always been a challenge for me. I’m always thinking seven steps ahead. I’m sure it’s why I can never find my car in the Target parking lot. Because when I’m parking I’m thinking about what I need to get inside, not where I parked.

Awhile back I read that everyone has an internal breaker system, one that trips when circumstances become too overwhelming. I think I’ve been gaining precariously close to that edge during the past few weeks, and cooking** has been the breaker’s voice telling me to stay in the Now. So I just let my hands do what they will.

It’s been feeling really good to sink into a recipe and paddle around in there with my wooden spoon for a little while. I came up with weird ideas out of the clear blue sky, too, even beyond swiping fruit from the neighbor’s yard, you’ll be proud to know. And I have a great selection for breakfast each morning.

*I dropped one on my foot once. That was plenty.
**And cooking and cooking and see note about the freezer.


These are the sour cherries I liberated from the tree I found on a lawn that hadn’t been mown in a while. On a whim I added a handful of homemade marzipan to the crust and doused the fruit with Disaronno. It was an almond extravaganza.


These are the wild black raspberries I found down by the lake. I have to pick them under partial darkness, because quite frankly, I’m greedy and don’t want to share. I made some choux pastry and loaded them with plain yogurt before sprinkling them with berries.

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