I will never, never understand cake mix. Since cake has no nutritional value, its only function is to taste good. But if you make it from a mix, you end up with something more akin to aerated ceiling plaster with a hint of propylene glycol. Since it doesn’t taste good, it has no purpose.
It is a white-frosted cake edged with ripples and poofs of day-glo aqua created from an unfathomable amount of food dye. “Happy Birthday” is written in perfect school teacher penmanship, in some sort of color-coordinated bright shade that would make the 80s proud. And of course, there are handfuls of thick, round sprinkles, in case you needed to be bludgeoned over the head with the overall message: this is a festive fucking occasion.
I don’t want any cake.
Yes, I am sure, thank you. I don’t need to reexamine this decision.
It’s not about the cake. It’s not about the calories or sugar, or even the wheat, which I don’t digest well. It’s about you questioning my decision, which is among the most inconsequential decisions I will make in my life. Maybe I’m not actually sure? Maybe I haven’t thought it through enough? Maybe I should text a friend and see what they think.
Although it’s not limited to women, a lot of women are socialized to ask this, and in name of being a good host, to push food in general. I wasn’t socialized this way, and it’s not my personality either. I’m way on the other end of the spectrum: I forget to introduce people properly, and to offer them water or stale gluten-free granola bars until they’ve been over for hours.
But asking “are you sure you don’t want any?” isn’t hospitality; the dish has clearly already been offered at least once. That was hospitality. “Are you sure?” is pushiness disguised in a hideous leisure suit of unwanted fruit salad.
And yes, I see that you are putting the pile-of-pudding-and-Cool-Whip-thing in the fridge where it will be inaccessible for all time. Since I didn’t want any before, its sudden inavailability is a moot point.
On a similar note: yes, I’m sure I don’t want a seat. I drove to get here; I’ve already been sitting. “Are you sure?” is definitely not limited to one thing, which is why I didn’t add cake, alcohol, or children to the post title.
Don’t even try to turn something down if your weight is anywhere in the same solar system as skinny. At the lower end of my general weight range, it’s not enough for cake-pushers to ask, “Are you sure you don’t want any?” at minute-and-a-half intervals. At the lower end, they also add, “But you’re so skinny.”
The wise ass part of my brain would always think, “Yeah, I’m skinny because I’m not eating the cake.”
“Skinny” is an adjective that gets thrown at women below a certain weight, whether or not it’s an accurate term. You should eat the cake because you’re skinny. I’m not skinny, and in fact, have a fair amount of muscle. But that doesn’t matter either. Skinny people can turn down cake too.
And I still don’t want the cake.
If I say, “Next week I’m going to hop a train with nothing but a backpack, a notebook, and a toothbrush,” you should probably ask if I’m sure. You could say that it sounds like quite an adventure, but am I sure? Have I considered that the day-to-day of this might not be as romantic as it sounds, and that water is heavy but also necessary, and oh hey, that I have a kid?
If I say, “Tomorrow I’m going to go get a face tattoo so I can emulate my favorite Star Trek character, Chakotay,” you should question this too. Feel free to ask if Chakotay really is my favorite character, really, and if a face tattoo is the best way to pay him homage, and even if it is, is there the tiniest chance that a face tattoo will negatively impact a lot of the rest of my life?
If I say, “I am going to get a mountain lion as a pet,” you should absolutely feel free to ask if I’m sure, and to point out that I’m not big on cats, and that some aspects of this plan might need a little work, even if, technically, the lease allows us to have a cat.
But it’s not a major life decision or a ridiculous plan. It’s a pan of brownies. The top is shiny and crackly in the way that brownies from a mix usually are. Some of them have been mounded up on a paper plate in a heap that is several steps shy of decorative. Which doesn’t make them bad, but I don’t want any. Even if you don’t want to bring home most of a pan of brownies because you will be tempted to eat them all, and you didn’t substitute the applesauce for canola oil like Weight Watchers said, dammit, I don’t want them.
I am sure.
I am still sure, even though you asked again. The brownies are not my problem.
I am sure.
There is a certain view that if we just sit back and stop worrying, the universe will take care of it. But there’s more than one meaning of “take care of it.” Sometimes, “take care of it” is what the villain says upon learning that the hero, or one of the hero’s plucky associates, is alive and well and making trouble. Turning to Henchman Number One, the villain says, “Take care of it.” And you know that the Henchman off to murder/ ambush/ kidnap/ maim someone.
Sometimes, that’s how the universe is too. Here’s a real life example:
Me: So I was thinking that I’d leave for work early and stop to get that computer mouse.
Universe: That’s one idea. But, ooh, how about instead the heat and hot water at your apartment stop working? And you can make a phone call about that.
Me: I hate phone calls.
Universe: Would it be better if a glass shattered on the floor right before you have to make the phone call?
Me: No, not really.
Universe: Ah, well, too late. No big deal, right?
Me: No, I suppose not. The glass broke in large pieces.
Universe: Right! Look at you, taking care of stuff like a champ.
Me: Yeah! I even still have time for lunch.
Universe: You know you have to clear off your car, right?
Me: Fine, no time for lunch. At least I have time to eat in the car.
Universe: No, now there’s blood. You have to take care of this.
Me: Blood? Where the hell is it coming from?
Universe: Your finger.
Me: Fine, I’ll put on a band-aid.
Universe: No, you can’t reach those.
Me: Well, then I’ll awkwardly wrap my finger in a napkin that I can kind of reach.
Universe: There you go. Now you can have lunch.
Me: No, I can’t. My finger is awkwardly wrapped in a napkin.
Universe: If you drive fast, you’ll have time to eat a few bites of sandwich before you walk into the building.
Me: That actually worked. You know, I’m not even in a bad mood. Despite all this.
Universe: Ok, that’s great! Now, how about you meet the person who was hired for that job you asked about all those months ago, but you didn’t follow up on it because you’re a big wimp and now you’re stuck making $10 an hour with the least flexible job in the world?
Universe: Good job. Now, how about that bad mood you mentioned earlier?
Me: Yes. I am totally depressed now.
What if you’re writing a book for children, but you want a character to swear profusely?
In my upcoming middle grade chapter book, Pumpkin Goblins, I have a goblin character fond of “swearing.” Like so:
“Right, right.” Hobkit clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll join you. Could use a break from all this chaos and malarkey, batdarnit.”
Hobkit has a bigger role in the revision than he did in the rough draft, and the more he speaks, the more time I spend trying to think up creative new phrases…
“Dagnabbit. Of all the bat-plagued, magic-cursed rotten timing!”
…because using “bat” and “pumpkin” repeatedly was getting tiring. I wanted to come up with a bunch of options at once. So, inspired by The Terribleminds Profanity Generator, I made my own word lists to generate Halloweeny, child-safe invectives. Actually, I drew a lot of my own words from his lists, but I needed a certain number of Halloween words thrown in there also.
So get out your d20 (or your Online Dice Roller, for those that don’t have twenty-sided dice on them at the moment) and join me in some long-form, clean profanity. Which can be easily dirtied!
Noun list one:
Noun list two:
Using the formula (Noun list 1) + (Verb, -ing), (Noun list 2) + (Verb, -ed) I got:
Elf plaguing, twig-smacked
Turnip gumming, jelly-haunted
My goblin character tends to curse in adjective form, already having specific things in mind to rant about. Things like other goblins, wizards, elves, and pumpkin cars.
“You turnip gumming, jelly-haunted wizard! Are you trying to destroy Halloween?”
I could also do something like:
(Noun from either list) + (Verb, -ed) – ed
To create the compound expletive wizardspackle.
“Wizardspackle! Are you trying to kill us all?”
On the one hand, I’ve now saved time on curse creation.
On the other hand, I’m now likely to waste revision time by doing this. Gourdrustle!
I’m a granola curmudgeon. “Call this granola? It’s all oats. Used to be they put nuts in granola but not these days, nosiree, get maybe two nuts in a bag… mutter mutter…”
There’s only one brand of store bought granola I eat, and there are only two granola recipes I use. I love granola with interesting flavor and texture combinations, but most of the time when I try to look up granola recipes online, I become irate and go back to my two standbys. The recipes either have too many oats, too much sugar, or not enough fat. Or, the recipe author is being condescending/cutesy, which makes me antagonistic towards the granola recipe, even if it’s perfectly good. Or, they’re being condescending/cutesy AND using too much sugar AND using too little fat AND telling me that I will not be able to tell how little fat is in the granola, which is not true because I’m a granola curmudgeon and I can always tell.
Think that’s bad? I’m even worse with yogurt.
Anyway, one of my two standby granolas is this Pumpkin Spice Granola recipe. I make some changes to it, but it’s a solid recipe on its own. Or it was, anyway, until I became a crazed ginger addict.
I’ve always been a big fan of ginger, but lately it’s gotten out of hand. I would steal your TV and sell it and use the money to buy crystallized ginger on the streets, and I would refer to it as “ging” or “crys,” which would be a little confusing since my name is Kris. The last time I made the Pumpkin Spice Granola, I added powdered ginger, and then quadrupled the ginger.
The fact that it’s now Christmastime only means that it’s socially acceptable for me to eat ginger like a maniac because Christmas is all about gingerbread everything when it isn’t all about peppermint everything or eggnog everything.
Since I am both a granola curmudgeon and a ginger maniac, and I will only use two granola recipes, I had to use the Pumpkin Spice Granola recipe as the template when I decided I needed to make Banana Gingerbread Granola.
So. Here is how to make that.
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Make it Fahrenheit, otherwise you’ll be even more grumpy about your granola than I am about most granola. Plus, you’ll have melted off your face.
Throw the following into a large bowl:
3 and 3/4 cups rolled oats
1 cup shredded coconut
1 cup pecans
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
4 teaspoons gingerbread spice*
A couple pinches of salt
Chop a ton of crystallized ginger. Pack it down tightly into a 1/2 cup, like you would with brown sugar. Mix into the dry ingredients.
Measure and rinse 1/2 cup uncooked quinoa, unless you are positive it’s pre-rinsed. This isn’t like rice. Sometimes people say you have to rinse rice, but that’s a lie. Quinoa contains bitter saponins, and unrinsed quinoa will ruin your granola as surely as if you had set the oven to 617 degrees Fahrenheit, aka 325 Celsius.
Mix the quinoa into the granola.
Mash a couple of very ripe bananas. Mine came to about 3/4 of a cup.
Mix together the mashed banana with the other wet ingredients:
3 tablespoons ground flax
6 tablespoons water
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup molasses
1/2 cup coconut oil, melted
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
If you don’t have coconut oil, use some other kind of fat. Just don’t leave it out. You could cut it down to 1/4 cup, because the Pumpkin Spice Granola only uses 1/4 cup. The last time I made the Pumpkin Spice Granola, I accidentally doubled the coconut oil. It came out extra crunchy, which I enjoyed.
Also, I usually measure the hard coconut oil into a 2 cup glass measure, then put it into the oven as it heats. Then I measure the other wet ingredients on top of it. Fewest dishes possible.
Mix the wet ingredients into the dry ones.
Cover a couple baking sheets with parchment paper. Or maybe just grease them. Then spread out the granola onto the sheets. Sometimes I plan my time poorly and end up throwing the granola mixture into the fridge overnight before I actually cook it. Because of this, I learned that granola forms larger clumps more easily when you refrigerate it first.
For some reason, granola cooking directions never work out for me. Here’s what I do instead of whatever the recipe says:
Cook the granola for 20 minutes, then stir it. You should see steam come up when you stir it. This will not happen when the granola is fully cooked. Keep the granola in the oven at 325 (yes, we’re still using Fahrenheit, good question) until it starts to brown some, checking and stirring every ten minutes at this point.
Once it gets a little browned (it should be slightly dry as well), turn the oven down to 200. Continue to check and stir every ten minutes. At this point, it’s just dehydrating until most of the moisture is gone.
Let it cool on the baking sheets before putting it into a container. Because it has plenty of fat and it’s been well-dehydrated, it will stay good for weeks. If you want to store it long term, throw a dessicant pack into the container.
*I get angsty about having to measure out tiny amount of spices, like 1/64 of a teaspoon nutmeg and a micron of cloves. Last year I mixed up a bunch of gingerbread spices from a cookie recipe and put them into an old spice container so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. I think this was 4 tablespoons ginger and 4 teaspoons each of ground nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon. If you don’t want to do this, reduce appropriately. It doesn’t have to be exact.
I wrote this post earlier in the summer, but held it back because August was so cool. But now that it’s September and summer has returned to toy with us some more, I have decided to call it out on some of the things it’s done. Here is a melodramatic list of things that melt in summer and ruin my life.
- Coconut oil deodorant, because I am a hippie. My deodorant is made of cornstarch, baking soda, and coconut oil, a substance which melts at 76 degrees and then needs to be stirred.
- Shoes, when placed in close proximity to a summer campfire. Before the invention of vulcanized rubber, sneakers melted on hot days. We’ve come a long way, but fire still beats sneaker.
- Skin, from my thigh, when backed into a summer grilling apparatus.
- Chocolate, when left in my car, a thing which is fine to do at sane times of the year.
- Ice, from my iced coffee. Even if I made it strong (and you can bet I did) it will devolve to an unacceptable level of wateriness before I am through drinking it.
- Ice cream. Eating ice cream could easily have gone in the post about summer activities that are better in winter. You mean I have 30 seconds to eat this before it’s just milk and corn syrup? It’s like defusing a bomb.
- Crayons, when left in the car. Sure, they look cool all blended together, but sometimes I want to draw things that don’t look like an acid trip, and I can’t do that with 64 colors which have digivolved into MegaCrayonmon.
This should be the penultimate post of Humidfest 2014. Maybe I’ll write some more if the heat continues into September, but at that point I think I’d need to change the name to GlobalWarmingFest.
Here’s a recap of the earlier posts in the series: