Craziness in the Form of a Sister...Mine...

My sister has, in the middle of her life, found religion. This, on its own, isn’t monumental. She’s searched her entire life for an identity and I should have expected this old standard to be one of her stops on this, her journey.

I’ve little doubt that my words will sound harsh, especially to “believers,” but you have to know the players. My sister, six years my junior, has taste tested just about every persona she could conjure up. When she was small, she fancied herself a budding ballerina, as do many little girls. Rather than merely taking ballet lessons, however, my sister took on an affect: The Budding Ballerina. She floated about wearing pastel leotards, tights and fluttery, flowery skirts. In truth, it was a pretty cool look for a little girl in the early 70’s. The juxtaposition of her long dark, wildly curly hair, and the gentle pinks and yellows of her soft, simple outfits offered a beautiful balance to her developing craziness and her little girl sweetness.

She moved lightly during this phase, mimicking the carriage of the dancers she admired. Ballet posters began to adorn her half of the walls in our shared bedroom and she talked of being A Ballerina. A tiny part of me thought--hoped--she was following in my footsteps, albeit to an extreme. I had been taking dance lessons since before she could walk, and I was, after all, her big sister. It made sense. And it seemed a nice persona for this tiny person just coming into her own. I thought encouragement would be, well, encouraging, so I told her how pretty she looked, how I loved her outfits and that she danced (when, in reality, the persona involved more fashion than dance, but, hey, what’s encouragement without a healthy dose of bullshit?), how my friends thought it was so cool that she had already found so distinct a style…

But this, like all of the phases to come, was short lived. As I would soon discover, my encouragement helped end each phase. From A Ballerina she went to Athlete, trading her fluttering skirts and delicate shoes for heavy sweatshirts and muddy sneakers. She pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail and began to look more like one of our brothers than my little sister. I ran, so she ran. We were both light and fast, but she was more competitive than I. Just when she was about to make a mark, my admiration of her speed and grace penetrated, and she moved on.

In high school, she wanted to be a punk rock singer, regardless of the fact that every second spent on key was followed by a minute off, and she went from audition to audition dressed as a nightmare-inducing cross between Madonna in her I’m a Virgin stage and Dee Snider of Twisted Sister (oh, hey, irony). She fancied herself a true artist when some of my artwork was displayed in my school’s art cabinet, and decided that she could write after my brother's first book was published.

I went to law school and she hedged toward applying, too, but her course had begun to change. Instead of going to law school, my sister decided to become the wife of a lawyer. Working on a master’s in social work at Rutgers, she studied in the law library, becoming what she envisioned a future lawyer’s future wife to be: studious, demure, subservient and conservative. She began dating a law student and was crushed nearly beyond repair when he dumped her for someone with a personality of her very own. My sister had learned, though, that a persona is only as good as the effort put into it, and she quickly recalculated. Her mistake, she felt, had been in scoping out the educated. She began frequenting the enlisted men’s haunts at and around McGuire Air Force Base, near our parents’ home where she still lived. Within two weeks, my now 29 year old sister met and became engaged to an alcoholic enlisted 20 year old man.

New persona: Wife to be. My sister seemed almost normal during the two weeks we furiously planned and had her wedding. The night before, her fiancé, who had moved into my parents’ house, left for the base, smelling heavily of alcohol. My mother explained to my sister that it was not too late to call off the wedding. She talked about wanting my sister to be happy, and hoping she would never be with a man just to avoid being alone. My sister listened, as she rarely had, seemingly giving what my mother said great thought. She stroked the fabric of her wedding dress and said quietly, but with absolute conviction, “No. I want a wedding.”

“You can have another wedding, another time.” My mother’s voice was calm, her face pained.

“Yeah, with someone who deserves to be with you,” I chimed in, reluctantly.

“No, I want a wedding tomorrow. I want to wear this dress. Tomorrow.” And, with that, she left the room.

She went from wife to mother to divorced woman living with her parents. From there, she had many incarnations, dragging all who cared about her through turmoil and grief. She thought she'd add three adopted Columbian children to her family of two sons, spending all of her savings and, no doubt, leaving her sons feeling less than adequate. She became pregnant, dropped the idea of adoption, married a second time...blah, blah, blah...fast forward: Is a Christian.

What the fuck happened between becoming pregnant out of wedlock and becoming a Bible thumping, judgmental, utterly overbearing pain in the ass...okay, she was always an judgmental and overbearing pain in the ass...Christian? She now sends my brothers and me diatribes about how our sins can be erased...or fixed...frankly, none of it makes any sense to me. The diatribes start out talking about Yahoo...really, I shit you not...and end with something about Jews becoming Christians and...I think it's supposed to be something good...or at least better...?

I've asked her to stop sending it and she has, as a Good Christian, refused to honor my requests. I am, it would appear, not of sound mind to know what I believe. The first time I asked her to stop sending this offensive Jew-Turned-Christian-Because-It's-Only-Right reading material to me and the man with whom I live (a Jewish born, non-believing, non-practicing, non-religious, highly moral, more decent than most man), she yelled at my 80 year old mother that it was her fault that none of her children had religion. My mother, Yahoobadoo bless her soul, yelled back that she had no control over her 50 year old “children,” and my father, how I love that man, proudly proclaimed that he hoped it was their fault that they'd raised thinking people. But my sister, ever the fruitcake, persists. She continues to send out diatribes and blatherings and Yahooisms, none of which make any sense to me.

It's sad to me that my sister can't value me as a person, if not as a sister, and I'm left to ponder the same old question: Is she doing this as affect? I look at friends who have relationships with their sisters, and wonder why mine is, and always has been, so difficult, so contrary, so on the verge of non-existent. I have a very dear friend who has a crazy sister, too, and marvel that he sees mine as so off the wall and his as merely pathetic, as someone to be pitied and, as a result, indulged. Mine fumbles through personas while his puts hexes on the women he tries, in vain, to have relationships with. Why is his more worth an effort than mine, I wonder. The conclusion is, for me at least, that neither is worth that kind of effort. He's just more conditioned or better trained, or maybe he possesses a greater ability to say, "Uh-huh" and nod, while playing Stairway to Heaven in his head while his sister talks.

Let's face it, crazy is crazy. My sister—and his—can raise a hand, proudly and with vigor, when a count is taken of the annoying, creepy, judgmental fruitcakes in the audience. My friend tries to pretend that his crazy sister is less crazy than mine—praise Yabadabdoo for crazier sisters--as I try to figure out a way to convince my sister to have her beliefs without so utterly alienating me that I have to pretend that I don't have a sister.

It's sad. My sister has been through a hundred incarnations and still comes up wanting. And, if you think about it, mildly comical (she believes in Yabadaboohee, after all). And my friend, well, his sister is just nuts.

Thanksgiving...Christmas...Bless the Baby Cheeses

We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with those who are near and dear to us. They, seemingly in return for our company, were sweet and welcoming and, maybe best of all, loved the cakes we delivered to them.

We lean toward the inappropriate and have an inclination to be irreverent. Thanks to our hosts, this was not a problem.

The cakes speak for themselves...

(I'm leading up to a real...A REAL...post, with writing and all, soon...with recipes to follow.)

Who Knew?

Freebies and Much More is a site the purpose of which is to tell the world about giveaways.  Who knew?  Endangered Species Chocolate is doing a giveaway, and there's no way that can be bad.  Go look...

Destiny and the Blogspot Fairy

Yesterday, for no apparent reason, my blog's "Followers" box disappeared.  Having ignored my basic disability with overly technical operations, I tried to set up a link to my newly created Facebook fan page, but, instead, I wiped out, or altered or otherwise fucked up, an entirely different box, one I'd had no intention of even venturing near.  It all seemed so simple at the time.

When I saw that my "Followers" box was empty, I launched into an absurdly frantic flurry of non-activity in an effort to diagnose the problem.  In the middle of reading my blog's Edit HTML Page, comparing what I saw there to—to what, I must ask?--it occurred to me that I had not a clue what I was "reading."  This, of course, forced me to sit back and ponder my reaction.

Could this be one of those Signs from the Universe of which the I'm-Not-Religious-I'm-Spiritual speak?  And if it is a sign, what, exactly, is the sign?  Is it that, in the end, I'm not meant to be followed (which is, please note, in true keeping with the ItWasn'tMeantToBe sermon offered when life goes all twisted and scattered, stubbornly refusing to yield to The Plan).  Or is it the SetItFreeAndIfIt'sRealItWillReturn philosophy working its wonders, perhaps?  If you love me, dear readers, you'll return?

I have to laugh at the Church of Signs from the Universe congregants who spew their ItWasn'tMeantToBe wisdom.  Why is it so difficult for some people to accept that solutions aren't always found hiding in plain sight, and that rarely do they come with either signs or confetti?  Sometimes things in life are muddy and vague.  Sometimes they are have huge lumps and jagged edges, even though we want desperately for them to be smooth and easy to hold onto.  Sometimes things in life simply seem too painful to bear, and nothing is as we'd hoped it to be.  Sometimes there are no clean answers or easy solutions, and, sometimes, that is just the way it is.

The absence of ease doesn't mean that we have no part in any of it, or that we shouldn't give it a good try.  The failure of things to fall easily into place or work as we'd planned isn't proof that we are controlled by something grander out there.

Maybe it's that I feel better thinking that I have a certain amount of control over the things I do and choices I make, but I suspect that my brother, who meets it'll all work out with but what if it doesn't, is right.  We have to do our part to make things work out.  We have to pay attention to the plans we're cultivating, and do the things that get us to the point of either "I did it" or "I sure gave it my best shot."  Things aren't going to be okay just because we decide that the universe—or some other force—is taking care of the details.  Besides, why does so powerful a universe need us if it's doing all of the work?  And how much of a token gesture do we really want to be anyway?

Another thing I wonder about is if we really want to let ourselves off that easily.  If we decline acceptance of some aspect of control over our lives, we relinquish responsibility for the paths we take, and the byproducts of the decision to take those paths.  I like thinking...believing...that we impact our own existences and, to some extent, the existences of those connected to us. 

Let's face it, your souffle didn't fall as a sign that you were meant to serve tuna salad at your dinner party. It fell because you haven't yet perfected the art of souffle making, or because the creepy neighbor kid stuck his fingers in it when it came out of the oven.   How you handle serving tuna salad at your dinner party says something about you, not the universe.

I would rather have made my little programming maneuver with finesse.  Instead, I touched something I shouldn't have touched, or I saved something I should have discarded, and here I sit, utterly and completely without a follower to my made-up name, with no one to blame but myself. 

The only sign I see in this is a flashing blood red neon reminder not to touch things I know nothing about, like HTML.  I don't even know what HTML means, so why would I go around touching it?  And, not only did I touch it, I fondled it.  No, I molested it, and that is just wrong.

I knew that I was going in over my head, but I went in anyway.  I tried and I screwed it all up, but I will try again.  It's only Not Meant if I decline to even try. 

So, in this vein, I will read about how to identify the error in my blog's HTML, after finding out what HTML means, and I will, through diligence and determination, work toward reestablishing my "Followers" list.  I may even put in the link to my Facebook fan page. 

I will, however, do this tomorrow.  Right now, I'm thinking about what a bitch the Blogspot Fairy truly is.

Happy Birthday to Naomi....with Gingerbread Cookies

This year, Naomi's birthday came two days after Passover and four days before Easter, making it, to some, a mere blur on the calendar. In our house, however, March 31 was noted, as it is every year, in bright pink marker and fancy script befitting the day:  Naomi's Day!

Naomi is the wife of Evan's brother and, though not one of my oldest friends, she is, without a doubt, one of my closest. I hate that her day went by without the calls and accolades she so diligently ensures the rest of us receive on our significant days. Naomi is the person who remembers every birthday and anniversary, without fail, and makes each event into something grand and memorable. When she is in charge of the party, the Naomi-droppings are wonderfully special little treats carefully selected for each individual. The food is an array of our favorites, with Coke in chilled glass bottles for the Coke drinkers, and a selection of expensive wines for the would-be connoisseurs. She always has meat for the carivores and vegetables for me, and manages to make each guest feel like her favorite.  I love that she remembers that Evan favors blue cheese dressing, but not blue cheese, and I feel compelled to deliver a hug to her when I hear her lean over to one of her guests and say quietly, "I thought of you when I saw this recipe." There is no way to feel anything less than truly valued and loved when Naomi is at the helm.

And so why, I must wonder, is it that Naomi's birthday would pass without a parade? Ever? Why would she say, in response to my query about how her birthday was going, that she was a little surprised that she didn't get calls from some of the people she considers family? Of course, she is Naomi and, so, dug up various excuses and reasons, and applied them all to the assorted delinquents. She's too generous of heart, in my estimation, especially since, to this day, they've still not called to say boo.

Fully aware of the WhatAboutMe universe in which we linger, and wanting the celebration of the day of Naomi's entrance into this world to be totally Naomi-centered, Evan and I planned our course of action many months ago. Knowing that Naomi prefers her won birthday parties to be devoid of guests, we invited her for a quiet dinner at our house.

Two years ago, we tried to have an intimate surprise dinner party for Naomi's birthday, with only Naomi, her husband, Evan and me in attendance.  We moved along nicely, planning and plotting until, through some course of events that, to this day, remain mirky in our haunted memories, all hell broke loose. Our intimate dinner for four evolved, in one uncontrollable afternoon, into a dinner party for the masses. We found ourselves "inviting" people who called for invitations, who, in turn, felt compelled to invite their own guests, not one of whom was Naomi's friend. The usual late arrivals arrived predictably and dreadfully late, and the tag-along invites brought dates, but not gifts. The group had a single conversation centered entirely and solely around the most irksome of topics and characters, and never once turned to the guest of honor, who sat there smiling and nodding and, I've no doubt, calculating exactly how long she had to stay before fleeing the scene without being rude. Having had dinner and cake, opened her presents and lingered a while, Naomi put on her coat as she thanked Evan and me profusely. Holding both of us in a giant, warm hug, she begged us to slaughter, on sight, any urge to throw her a party again, ever, in all of her remaining years.

This year, as it turned out, Passover was two days before her birthday. In true Naomi-ness, she and her husband did the bulk of the Seder cooking, transporting the food into the city from their house more than two and a half hours away. The day after her birthday, her husband left for a week, so her birthday was spent readying him for his trip. Finally, on Easter, Naomi was all ours.

It was perfect, too, because Naomi, our nice Jewish girl, loves Easter. (Frankly, Naomi refuses to turn down an opportunity to fuss and fix and prepare for family and friends, so all holidays are equally precious to her.)

Evan, who adores a good play on words fashioned especially for the recipient, had, long ago, come up with the perfect gift. At every family event, Naomi and I do kitchen duty, and the outfit of the day always includes an apron and yellow rubber gloves. No, this isn't a housewife's sexual fantasy, it's Naomi's idea of preparedness. While I've been known to don an apron on the rare occasion, I will not, under any circumstances, do anything at all ever while wearing yellow rubber gloves. Ever. But I digress.

Evan's idea was to paint something witty and purely Naomi-esque on an apron. I would make the apron and then paint his literary genius on the pocket. Here's the foundation for his thinking:  Naomi was raised in a traditional Jewish family. She attended Hebrew school for five years in preparation for her Bat Mitzvah and is, in many ways, the embodiment of a good Jewish girl. She feeds us and hugs us, and tells us we are the best and the brightest, before noting that we're too skinny and probably could use more rest (or sex, depending on who she's counseling).

"You're wasting away," she laughingly scolds in her exaggerated New York Jewish mama accent as I wedge my fat ass into the chair directly in front of the pile of chocolate she's laid out especially for me.

I believe that most of her husbands have been Jewish, and, of course, I know that Evan's brother, her current husband, is. All of this notwithstanding, she does not cling to a strong religious belief system. It's the very best of the Jewish heritage, culture and tradition all rolled up in one beautiful Naomi.

Evan has a wonderfully warped sense of humor and Naomi possesses a delightfully quick and equally warped wit. When EvanHumor enters the conversaton, recongnition flickers in her eyes immediately and her appreciation for his cleverness is demonstrated with rolling rounds of hearty belly laughs. Now, bearing in mind these senses of humor, in conjunction with the apron/yellow rubber glove fetish, Evan's creative juices spewed out this:

She loved it. With only the slightest trepidation remaining on her part, I do believe that Evan has convinced her to wear the apron at Passover dinner next year. That should make an interesting story...

Now, the cake. For some reason I've yet to understand, Naomi is called The Duck. In honor of her birthday last year, and her Grand Duckness every year, Evan and I made the Duck Diving Cake.

 The Bird Brothel Birdhouse Evan made for Naomi's birthday last year.  She won't let birds go in it--they'll make it dirty, she says.

This year, we made an Easter scene with, of course, a duck in residence. We made it out of sugar cookies and, Naomi's favorite, gingerbread, and decorated it all with Royal Frosting.

I say "we" made these lovelies because, while I'm the baker, Evan is my technical advisor and cheerleader and, when needed, carpenter and master finagler. I've yet to take on one of these bizarre projects without his counsel and, frankly, the bizarreness is borne, as a rule, largely out of his oddly brilliant and frighteningly creative mind. Naomi, our comrade in the absurd, was thilled with her "cake" and felt loved, making ours a successful endeavor.

So, dear Naomi, Happy Birthday one more time. We love you more than you know. You're a true and consistent friend to both of us, and you bring tremendous joy into our lives. And, my dear, you have the best That-was-the-time-I-had-sex-in-the-Louvre genre of stories of anyone on earth!

GINGERBREAD COOKIES  (adapted from Betty Crocker's Cookbook)

INGREDIENTS
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup butter
1 ½ cups dark molasses
2/3 cup cold water
7 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

PREPARATION
Mix brown sugar, butter, molasses and water.  Stir in remaining ingredients.  Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Prepeat oven to 350 degrees (F).  Roll dough out on floured surface to about ¼ inch thickness.  Cut with floured cookie cutters and place about 2 inches apart on lightly greased chookie sheet.

Bake for about 10 to 12 minutes, or until no indentation remains when the center of the cookie is touched.  Be careful to not to over bake.

Allow to cool slightly before removing from cookie sheet.  Cool completely on wire rack before decorating with Royal Frosting.

FROSTING AND ASSEMBLY
I still don't quite have the piping as clean as I'd like, but it was easier, and more fun, after reading Brown Eyed Baker's How To on decorating with Royal Frosting.

For this project, I made 3 batches of Royal Icing.

(The base is a sugar cookie. I was concerned that the gingerbread would puff too much to make a decent foundation.  Roll out about 1/2 inch of dough and use a dinner plate as a template, placing the plate on the dough and then cutting around the outer edge of the plate.  Drape the cut dough around your rolling pin, and carefully transfer it to an ungreased cookie sheet.  I baked it at 350 degrees for about 25 minutes.  After the first 15 minutes, check it frequently until it's a very light golden color along the edge.)

When the base was completely cooled, I iced it with thinned, green tinted Royal Icing and placed it in the refrigerator overnight to harden.

I don't yet have a duck cookie cutter (if you can imagine such a thing!), so I cut the tail off of the turkey shape, reshaping her feet into smoother, longer shapes, and elongating her beak into a bill.  I also pulled her head down a bit and fluffed up her tail.

I decorated each cookie and placed those, too, in the refrigerator to allow the icing to harden completely.

The black flower is actually purple

Once hardened, the cookies were applied to the base using piping consistency icing.

The sheep and house were thick enough to allow me to put a toothpick through them, with the other end of the toothpick going through the sugar cookie and icing on the bottom of the cookie for added glue.  Everything was brought to room temperature before the toothpicks were inserted. 
I made the cookies one day, and frosted and assembled them the next.  Unfortunately, the pictures are blurry, but the "cake" was cute, the cookies were delicious and we had a very happy Duck in our house.


** The apron and its decoration were made with love and respect, and were no way meant to be a display of anything derogatory toward Jews, Christians or Cheese Lovers.  If you're easily offended, frankly, this probably isn't the blog for you.

Poop and fleas, and other nice things

Recently, a woman told me that she named “all poop” after me.  She actually wrote that in an e-mail message.

“I name all poop after you.” 

I shit you not (excuse the pun).  It wasn’t even in the body of the message, it was the post script.  She wrote it in response to a note I sent to her thanking her for the I-Love-You-Still card she sent to the man I live with.  I thought her comment about poop was uncalled for, given how gracious my message was, my motivation so clearly borne out of generosity of heart. 

“Thank you for the card you sent to Evan,” was what I wrote. 

Okay, maybe “gracious” is a slight exaggeration, and I guess my motivation was borne more out of wanting her to feel irked that I knew about the card, and, perhaps, pissed, even, that he showed me something she thought would be private between them.  Frankly, I'm still feeling rather justified and somewhat cleansed.  After all, I could have opted for full-on bitchy rather than wading through with polite passive aggression.  I think my approach shows reserve and ingenuity, all rolled up in one.  She did, after all, send the man I live with an I-Love-You-Still card, and that's just not polite.

Upon receipt of my “thank you,” she immediately wrote her adorable little response.  In only one or two lines of amusingly bad spelling and creatively mixed metaphors, she noted, in essence, my proclivity for certain oral activity, the practice of which is completely illegal in most Southern states and an unmentionable abomination in all religions.  In keeping with her eloquent writing style, she added this witty post script: “P.S. I name all poop after you.” 

Honestly, I don't think she meant for it to be amusing.  She doesn’t like me much. 

Admittedly, I understand the effect she was going for.  She meant for me to curl up, thumb in mouth, whimpering and ashamed of the low I had so clearly hit by, you know, existing and all, thereby causing so decent and lovely a human to feel no options but to name shit after me.  She was, after all, thoughtful enough to send Evan a card.  That was nice of her. 

But no.  Wretched One that I am.  I couldn't even give her credit for being so swell.  Instead, I read her note and post script, and paused, mouth bobbing open ever so slightly, before bursting out in a hearty belly laugh. 

Obviously, the first thing that hit me was that she actually names shit.  And admits to it.  In writing.   To me.

As I sat there, reading this e-mail message, tears streaming from my eyes, laughter rippling uncontrollably through me, I envisioned her putting little doggie boots and a little doggie beret on her poor little doggie before trotting out into the world with him cringing on the end of his lavender glitter-studded leash, and I could hear her Julia Childesque baby voice tittering, “Does my widdle boy need to take a Wosawe?”  (Oh, come on. Tell me you really think a woman who names poop doesn't prance around the dog park with her poor little dog looking utterly douche-like.)

And it isn't that she simply names shit.  She names all shit after me. 

I've been accused, of late, of  being mean for no particular reason, so I want to be careful here.  This naming of shit might, after all, be a kind and generous gesture, rather than the “fuck you” I have attached to it.  I mean, one's name being affixed to a mound of sizzling, smoldering waste might actually be an honor in some countries, among various cultures.  Of course, it's possible, too, that “poop” is a gentler, kinder substance than is shit, hence the compliment in the reference to poop in relation to me.  While shit is smelly and gloppy and gag-inducing, poop may be, in her glitter-glued universe, a sort of preferred substance, something sweet and silky, sparkling and clean, something reserved solely for the special and much loved.  And she did say, you'll recall,  “poop.”  It was only I who likened it to shit.

This brings me to the second thing that made me laugh heartily:  She calls shit “poop.”  At 50-something, this woman actually calls shit “poop.”  It's not that she's calling shit “poop” because children are within hearing or, in this case, reading, range.  (Of course, that logic pretty much falls apart where it sits anyway, given her commentary, in the same note, on blow jobs.) 

I'll admit that there may have been a time that it could have been cute that she called shit poop, but such time passed, oh, like 45 years ago.  A grown woman who can write a note in which she addresses the administration of blow jobs can, most certainly, bring herself to say the word “shit.”  (And, since we're on the topic, the fact that she finds an insult in saying a man might get enough oral sex to satisfy him just could be one reason she's the old girlfriend.  Could be.)

Alas, this little ditty wasn't the last she would pen.  Since then she has offered words of wisdom worth embroidering on a little pillow.  In response to a mass mailing that a virus may have gone out through my e-mail address, via hacking, she sent this bit of literary brilliance:  May a flea bited, sexually deranged, dung covered camel take up residence in your kitchen and infest your bed.

It's not a typographical error; she actually wrote flea bited. 

And, although I wasn't aware that one could have an infestation of camels, let alone an infestation of a lone camel, I'm assuming my uber articulate friend would know about such things.  I'm not even going to start on the concept of the camel needing to be in both the kitchen and the bedroom.  Seems inconsistent, but, hey, who am I to question the curse of a shit-namer? 

I thought the embroidered pillow would be lovely on the bed in which the infestation of camel resides.  I'm picturing a cream background with delicate stitches, perhaps in rich and vibrant shades of poop.  Nice?

Where's a White Knight When You Need One? (Chocolate Tassies)

My experience with White Knights is that you can never find one when you need one.  I have to admit, though, that my experience is extremely limited.  I'm usually the one to run to the rescue or defense of someone in need, rarely asking for a hand or shoulder when I've had the wind knocked out of me. 

And then, of course, the raging sexism inherent in the whole Distressed Damsel/White Knight concept has always made me wretch just ever so slightly. First we have the fragile damsel, unable to cope, stranded and teary-eyed, calling out weakly for her only hope of salvation, which is, of course, embodied in a man.  Enter the White Knight.  He's clad in cold, hard armor, heroically available but conveniently untouchable.  He's here in a moment, and gone just as swiftly, strong and silent, and as readily available to absolutely any other woman who bats a dewy eyelash at him. 

Of late, however, I hate to admit that I've come to understand the inclination to turn to the occasional White Knight.  A White Knight might be handy when things hit overload.  What's unique about a White Knight is that you don't have to wait for the ax to actually fall for him to heed your call.  No, he's there before the ax is even lifted above your pretty little head.  Before it's picked up.  He's there when the ax is still in the box.  His role is to save the Damsel in Distress before her delicate whimper finds full voice.  Shit, all a damsel has to do is break a sweat and nibble her nicely painted pinky nail, and he's on the scene.  That's how valuable a White Knight can be.  Should be.  Is.

I've seen White Knights in action.  They hold dainty hands, cradle crumpled bodies, comfort frazzled minds.  They are the strongest and most solid, they're fearless and, best of all, they love being White Knights.

I have a dear friend who's a self proclaimed White Knight.  He's wonderful.  I've seen him in costume, as it were.  He jumps into cars and planes at a moment's notice.  He cancels his world and puts his relationships in jeopardy just to help the damsel d'jour. 

Interestingly, the damsel doesn't have to be a would-be lover or current girlfriend, though I've seen those included.  Nay, mostly she's an old girlfriend, a family member, a friend, a casual acquaintance or the neighbor of a casual acquaintance, but--and here's the clincher--she's always someone who would never return the favor were he in need.  Of course, it's possible that an inherent part of being a White Knight is serving best those who value him least.  Maybe the lack of returned consideration makes it all more heroic, more dramatic, more seemingly vital.  It could be also that competent, healthy women don't summon White Knights.  They merely ask friends for assistance.

I once watched my friend stop his world mid-spin to run to the aid of a most annoying woman he once dated.  She called from the other end of the country to say that bees were in her bus. (No, it's not a euphemism.  She actually summoned him because bees had gotten into the school bus she lives as she follows carnivals around the country.  Don't ask.) 

And the bees weren't actually in her bus, they were in the engine compartment of her bus.  Now, starting the bus would have made those bees do something else, bringing about a solution of sorts, I've no doubt.  Those bees might have left or dispersed or evacuated, for example.  But, no, any such solution would have negated the need for a White Knight altogether.  Her tiny brain clearly unable to come up with anything else, having thought and strained until little wisps of smoke emanated from her oddly large ears, she confidently settled on, "Oh, please, be my White Knight just once more.  There are bees in my bus.  Engine.  Compartment...”

And, being a White Knight, my dearest friend called out from work, put his relationship with his current girlfriend in a treacherously precarious state and headed for the airport, saying, "She needs my help.  No one else can do it.” And then, muttering through his fingers (because no man has balls that big), "I have to start her bus.  There are bees in her bus.  Engine...compartment...."  And he was gone.

You can imagine the stunned and dejected look on Current Girlfriend's face.  "There are bees in her what?" she called after him.   "But why can't she just turn on the engine herself?”

He didn't break stride.  He was, after all, a White Knight and he could not falter.

In keeping with the whole White Knight framework, this woman, this old girlfriend of his, had proven herself time and again to be someone who didn't worry about him.  She'd never wasted a thought on his happiness or his sorrows.  When they spoke on the telephone in the days, weeks, months following their break up, he told her, in response to her queries about his life,  about his ever mounting troubles at a job he'd once loved.  Of course, she asked only because she wanted to hear that he'd fallen apart since asking her to leave, and she wasn't at all pleased that, other than in his work life, he was happier, calmer, saner. 

Okay, maybe not saner, the whole White Knight thing pretty much defying the concept of sanity, but you see where I'm going.

As I said, he's a wonderful man.  He's been a true friend since we were children, and I've no doubt that he's one hell of a White Knight.  I've not, however, had the pleasure of his rescue.  Until recently, I didn't want the benefit of this particular talent of his.  To the contrary, upon discovering his penchant for rescuing Damsels in Distress, I noted, with great vigor and, no doubt, volume, that I would never, ever, under any circumstances, play the part of the damsel d'jour. 

“You just keep your Knighthood tucked away, there, my friend," I announced.  "I can defend myself.”

Well, let me just say that I misunderstood the value of a White Knight.  He's not merely someone who  starts the engines of the push-up bra-ed, whiny voiced, addle brained faux-ettes you find flopping around unrestrained out there in the world.  No.  He's there for regular people, too.  The best part is that (and this is really significant, so pay attention), in addition to holding dainty hands, cradling crumpled bodies and comforting frazzled minds, your average White Knight will defend one's honor.  That, I have to say, is amazing.  Who does such things? 

Well, while I can't tell you who does do such things, I can tell you who doesn't.  My very own, personal, ever ready, merely-a-phone-call-away White Knight.  That's who.

As it turns out, no long ago, I slid into my maladjusted persona and decided that I needed some defending.  Some pretty major defending, as I saw it, so I said to my friend, "You know all of that White Knighting you like to do so much?  Well, I'm needing some defending--my honor having been put in great peril and all--and I was wondering if you'd  take care of that for me."  

And I followed this with my best faux, damseleque smile and, though I could be mistaken, I believe I simulated a bat or two of the eyelash. 

My “situation” involved The Triplets, people my friend and I've both known for some time.  It seemed to me that, my friend's reputation for valor being what it is, The Triplets might hear reason regarding my most recent faux pas were it to came from his lovely lips.

“All you have to do when The Triplets start to talk shit about me, and they will, is just whip out your trusty knife and...

“Sword.”

“What?”

“Sword.  It's a sword.”

“What is?”

“Or it could be a lance, but it's not a knife.  You said 'knife,' but a knight carries a sword.  Or a lance.”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Whatever.  So, just...”

“Well, I know it's only a metaphor, since I'm not really a knight or anything, but a knife doesn't make sense.  I hate when you say things that make no sense.”

“Sword. Okay.  Whip out your--so, do you whip out a sword?  You draw a sword, right?  Okay.  Whatever.  Just don't let me down.  When they start to talk shit about me, please stick by me, philosophically, I mean.  Stick up for me.  When they talk shit, refuse to listen.  Say, 'I won't listen.  This is wrong.'  Okay?  They'll want you to listen, and maybe even to talk shit about me, too, but don't.  Take any other path, but Do Not Listen to Shit.”

Now, he's aware that I've never been the Dial-a-White Knight type and, as such, haven't a a reserve of White Knights tucked away in a safe place.  But, just as a reminder that he was It for me, I said, "I don't have any other White Knights, you know.  You're It for me.”

I should have known that something was amiss when I looked into his beautiful blue, and frantically darting, eyes, just before hearing, I could swear, a faint gagging sound.

“Sure, he said, "No, it's good.  Really.  Right up my alley.”

And off he went, into the lion's den, for me, one of his dearest friends.  And a damsel, to boot.

And back he came, having completely sold me down the river.  I'll not bore you with the details, but trust me when I say that he did not start my bus for me.  When The Triplets started talking shit about me, he went entirely into Every Man for Himself mode, and sold me right down the bloody river.  Not only did he listen to the shit, he did it without hesitation, and, from his own rendition of the events, with true gusto.

In all fairness, he came back with absolutely no understanding that he had sold me out.  He was shocked that I was less than thrilled with the results.

“But you don't understand, I did the best I could.  The situation was very difficult.  They were really pissed at you, really pissed.  I did the only thing I could.  I'm not sure I could have gotten out of there without them being, well, really pissed at me, too, if I hadn't listened.  It's not like I agreed or anything.  And the good news is that The Triplets seemed much happier now.  I think they're going to be fine." He actually had the bad sense to smile, albeit weakly, at me.

“They're going to be fine?  We wanted me to be fine!  Of course they're going to be fine!  They wanted to talk shit.  You listened while they talked shit.  YOU WHERE SUPPOSED TO DEFEND MY FUCKING HONOR!”

“But you don't understand.  Even you would have listened!  It was horrible!  They were mad!”

And so it went, back and forth, to and fro, until, finally, he had to go home and I had to throw up.  He didn't see that he'd failed as my White Knight--still doesn't to this day--and I don't see that he succeeded. 

Of course, it could be that I asked him to exceed his authority as a White Knight.  Maybe White Knights aren't in the business of defending honor any more.  Maybe they never were.  Would I know?

This much I can tell you.  Even if I find that I do have another White Knight tucked safely away somewhere, unbeknownst to me, I can't imagine ever calling on one again.  When it comes to things like fucked-with honor and bees in places that don't effect anything anyway, I'll pull my own knife and start my own engine from now on, thank you very much.  It's easier to keep friends that way.

In celebration of the demise of my fleeting fantasy that White Knights might have a place in the more dysfunctional sections of my world, and the happy realization that, if I refrain from playing a helpless twit, I can avoid an opportunity to be disappointed by a friend, I made Chocolate Tassies.  And, in keeping with the mood of the day, they were inedible. 

I exaggerate.  They were edible, I just don't know why anyone would bother.  The crust was rather tasteless and bore a texture akin to wet paper, and the filling was chalky, at best.  I can see how they would be a delicious dessert, but this recipe wasn't the one to make that happen.  If you have a recipe that's good, I'd love to hear about it.

In the meantime, don't try this one without making some major changes.

CHOCOLATE TASSIES

(Recipe by Creative Chef on www.ifood.tv)

INGREDIENTS

PASTRY

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 packages (3 ounces each) cream cheese, cold, cut into chunks

1 cup butter, cold, cut into chunks

FILLING

2 tablespoons butter 

2 squares (1 ounce each) unsweetened chocolate

1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

2 eggs, beaten

Dash salt

1 1/2 cups chopped pecans (I omitted these)

PREPARATION

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).

PASTRY

Place flour in large bowl. Cut in cream cheese and butter. Continue to mix until dough can be shaped into a ball. Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 hour.

Shape chilled dough into 1-inch balls. Press each ball into ungreased miniature (1 3/4-inch) muffin pan cup, covering bottom and side of cup with dough.  Set aside.

FILLING

Melt butter and chocolate in medium-sized heavy saucepan over low heat. Remove from heat.

Blend in sugar, vanilla, eggs and salt; beat until thick. Stir in pecans.

Spoon about 1 teaspoon filling into each unbaked pastry shell.

Even more appetizing when the cups are overfilled.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until lightly browned and filling is set. Cool in pans on wire racks. Remove from pans; store in airtight containers.

I should have known that something was wrong when I read the final direction.  In a recipe, “store in airtight containers” should never be the replacement direction for “eat with vigor,” don't you think?

Further proof that these babies were gross is that our chickens wouldn't go near them.  Chickens, please note, will eat absolutely anything, including, but certainly not limited to, the remnants of a murder scene.  These Chocolate Tassies, however, were shunned.

Say Happy Tuesday with a Story & Decorated Sugar Cookies

I keep thinking about Valentine's Day and wondering why, despite what feels like my best efforts, I end up stuck when I try to write about it.  I have no problem with the day, even though its focus is on gift giving and coupledom, two things I find offensively overemphasized in our society.  This notwithstanding, as a rule, I relish any holiday that provides an excuse to pay more attention to the people I like paying attention to, and that embraces goofiness with heartfelt gusto.  Halloween and Valentine's Day probably rank as the top two for taking goofiness to new heights, and Valentine's Day is really keen on paying attention to those we love best.  So, I wonder, why have I had trouble putting pen to paper, as it were, about The Day?

I think it may be at least in part because I'm keenly aware of the false expectations The Day conjures up for most people, much like those conjured up on any given Saturday night in the Land of the Dateless Adolescent.  While I don't feel the need to do more than say “Happy Valentine's Day” upon waking, and, until this relationship, I haven't received (and, so, haven't expected) Valentine's Day gifts, I'm aware that the day itself holds some weird, uncomfortable energy for people who do expect something.  Like those Dateless Adolescents on a flat Saturday night, they feel like something should happen.  They've no doubt that the masses will ask how it was, and they know that they'll have nothing of value to offer in response.  It isn't enough to say that the day was fine.  Flowers or candy or jewelry must have crossed the threshold for the day to be awarded any real merit.  For some reason, we falter at the idea of having a Valentine's Day that doesn't measure up the expectations of the masses.

Our Valentine's Day this year was a nice enough day, but it was Tuesday that was truly special.

Sunday, The Day, started with a beautiful morning followed by a brown kind of day.  The only reason it turned brown at all was that we allowed the world outside to invade our quiet and bang around for a bit.  Once we regained our balance, we had an evening filled with sweetness.

(Sweetness and a touch of food poisoning.  We tried a new sushi restaurant and left feeling, as Evan says, slimed.  Even though the food was highly mediocre and, come Monday, not a distant enough memory at all, the company was perfect, and we both felt happy and loved for the rest of the evening.  Monday brought prayers for swift deaths, but that's not a story you want to hear.)

On Tuesday, we awoke to snow covered everything.  The world outside was fluffy and white and oh so quiet.  We watched as the tiny flakes continued to fall, and marveled at the beauty.   The chickadees played on the lilac branches that rest on our bedroom windows, making us chuckle and reminding us that it was a good day, if we were at all inclined to forget.

We laid on our bed, watching the birds and squirrels outside, and talking about the animals we had known in our lives.  Some comment or other sparked Evan's memory and, mumbling enthusiastically about a dog and a story, he jumped up, gracefully sidestepped a cat doing the tango across his path, and left the room.

“You'll love this,” he said as he walked back in, flipping through the pages of E.B.White's book of essays, The Points of My Compass, while peeking over the top of it in time to step over yet another cat shimmying happily in place. 

He turned to an essay called Bedfellows, propped up his pillows and began reading in his deep, rich, very best storytelling voice.

“It's about White's dog, Fred.  I love this story,”  Evan, a great lover of both E.B.White and animals, smiled as he settled back into his spot with the contentment of a man about to be enveloped by the warmth of a good story.

Fred was a vibrant character in life and remains one still, long after his departure, thanks to White.  Evan read about Fred's bogus pedigree and generally shady past, his too-firm convictions, unwavering paranoia and exaggerated commentary until we laughed so hard that tears filled our eyes and he had to stop reading for a minute.  He read as White voiced his conviction that Fred was not especially loyal so much as obsessive, and his annoyance at the way Fred hogged the covers in bed and insisted on walking ahead of him when they surveyed their country property together.   His voice catching ever so slightly, Evan brought to life White's revelation that Fred's was the only grave he ever visited and how, seven years after Fred's death, White still felt him always nearby.

When he finished reading, Evan rested the closed book on his chest, and we talked about dogs we'd known, and places we'd lived with them.  We talked about our own odd family of cats and ducks, chickens and rabbits, all former rescues and strays, and their adorably quirky personalities.  We talked about White's writing, and our own  writing, and came to the firm conclusion that it was a perfect kind of a day.

Waldo doing his impression of a Macy's parade float

And it was.  It was a perfect Valentine's Day.  Had the planets been properly aligned when Hallmark's New Holiday Committee chose the official date for Valentine's Day, making it February 16 instead of February 14, I would have had an easy go at writing a lovely story about The Day.  Instead, I struggled.  I had misunderstood for a minute.  I thought that I was writing about The Day, rather than about the day.

Our stomachs have regained their ability to digest food, so much so that we ate sushi again last night.  (We went back to our tried and true favorite sushi restaurant, however, deciding to shun experimentation and adventure where raw fish is involved, at least until the memory of the aftereffects of Sunday's culinary adventure fades sufficiently, and we've restocked the Pepto.)  Evan continues to read stories from The Points of My Compass, but now he has to go find it first, since I snatch it when he puts it down and fail ever to return it to its place.  I love to read White, but I love most the sound of his words spoken by Evan's voice.

I want a day like Tuesday to be our Valentine's Day from now on.  It doesn't have to actually be a Tuesday and it doesn't even have to be in February.  Any snowy or rainy or sunny day will do.  And no flowers or candy or jewelry need pass over the threshold.  We need only a window and a comfortable spot, some cats snuggled up against our legs, each other and a good story.

Happy Valentine's Day.

(I mean every word I write, and I write them with a full heart.  I am not, however, giving back the exquisite square cut peridot earrings Evan gave me on The Day.  I mean, come on.)

HOUDINI'S SUGAR COOKIES

Ingredients

½ cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ¼ teaspoons baking powder
¼ cup citrus juice
1 teaspoon good vanilla

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees (F).

1.Cream together the butter and sugar until smooth and fluffy.  Beat in the eggs, one at a time. 

2.Mix together the flour and baking powder, incorporating them fully.  (I do this by placing a strainer over my mixing bowl and putting the flour and the baking powder in the strainer, and then straining the dry mixture into the wet mixture.  The flour and baking power are fully incorporated this way.  You can use a good old-fashioned sifter, too.)  Thoroughly mix together the flour and the butter mixtures.

3.Add the juice (I usually use either pineapple or orange juice, though any citrus will work) and vanilla, and mix well.

4.On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough to your desired thickness.  The dough puffs only a bit, so the thickness you roll is, roughly, the thickness of your finished cookie. 

5.Using cookie cutters or the open end of a drinking glass, cut out shapes.

6.Place the cookies on a baking sheet with the raw edge up.  Bake for about 7-8 minutes, removing them from the oven before they brown.  Cool slightly before transferring the cookies to a wire rack.

7.Once the cookies have completely cooled, they're ready to decorate.

If you plan to store the cookies for a while, you can freeze or refrigerate them in an airtight container.  Freeze them without frosting; defrost thoroughly prior to frosting.

ROYAL ICING

Ingredients

1 large egg white  (Remember that this is going to remain uncooked, so use only pasteurized eggs.  You can also use meringue powder equivalent to 1 large egg white plus water, following the directions on the container.)

1 ½ cups confectioner's sugar, sifted

1 teaspoon clear vanilla   (Regular vanilla will cause your white frosting to turn a beige color.  If you plan to tint all of your frosting, you don't need clear vanilla.)
Preparation for Stiff Consistency

This consistency dries hard, and is used for outlining, writing and making shapes.  

1.  In a large bowl, whisk the egg white.  Beat in vanilla.

2.Add the confectioner's sugar, ¼ cup at a time, to the egg mixture, beating well after each addition. Beat on high setting until the icing is stiff and glossy.

Preparation for Flooding Consistency

Use this consistency when you are filling in an outlined surface with frosting.  It's a much thinner consistency, and is used to fill in designs.  After letting it dry thoroughly, you can pipe stiff Royal icing over the flooded area.

Prepare using the recipe for Stiff Consistency, adding  warm water at about 1  tablespoon at a time.  Beat until the icing dissolves into itself on the count of three when you lift the paddle of your mixer.

You'll pipe this onto your cookie, or you can use a fine paint brush.

Coloring Frosting

I use Wilton gels, but you use any food coloring you like.  Divide the frosting into little bowls and add your color, mixing thoroughly.  If you're using gels, start with just a little and increase slowly.  The color is much more intense with much less gel than it would be if you were using liquid coloring.

~As you can see from my cookies, I'm not particularly good at piping yet.  It takes practice.

I'm not even going to comment on this...

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Sugar (Putz) Brownies

Their name notwithstanding, Sugar (Putz) Brownies are pretty basic brownies. The recipe doesn’t call for anything particularly interesting or different, and the technique is hardly unique. They are delicious brownies, but so are others. In fact, the relative normalness of the brownies is revealed in heading on the little recipe card which reads, simply, Brownies. I named them Sugar (Putz) Brownies after hearing their story.

Evan and his mother spent much of their time together as a family of two. Evan’s parents divorced when he was a teenager and his older brother went off to create his own family. Evan and Houdini’s bond was loving and, when Houdini died, Evan became the keeper of her recipes. 

Several years ago, Evan mentioned that his mother’s brownies were the best he’d ever had. It was a “one pot” recipe which, in his younger days, he’d made himself upon occasion. As he spoke, he pulled a little tin box out of the cupboard. He said he thought the recipe would be in the box, since it held some of her favorite recipes. 

He stood there, in the kitchen, resting his hand gently on the little tin box while he told me the story of would become Sugar (Putz) Brownies.

Evan was in his late teens or very early twenties when, one day, he decided to make brownies. He found his mother’s recipe and set out baking. He dug out a big pot and lit the stove, melting the shortening and unsweetened chocolate before adding the rest of the ingredients. While he measured and mixed, he sang to the music playing on the radio and made plans for the evening with a friend who telephoned. He prepared the pan, poured the batter in, slipped it into the hot oven and stood waiting impatiently for those delicious, chocolatey bits of heaven to bake.

Evan, unlike me, waits for baked goods to cool before tasting them, saving his tongue from the little burns and blisters I sport so regularly. True to form, he refused to taste the brownies before they reached a safe temperature. As he waited, they teased his senses, sitting before  him looking so rich and lusciously brown, their chocolate aroma filling the kitchen, begging for him to pick just one crumb up and touch it to his mouth. 

He resisted, waiting until, finally, they were cool enough to eat. He cut a big square along the edge, scooped it out of the pan and put it to his lips. Closing his eyes (everyone knows it’s impossible to truly enjoy chocolate with open eyes, after all), he took a huge bite, fully confident that his senses were about to be tickled by that delectable chocolate brownie of his childhood. 

But instead of the sweet, smooth chocolate-laced gooeyness he so loved, his mouth suddenly harbored a tangy-bitter blob of wet flour and salt. 

“AAAUUUCCCCCCHHHHHH,” resonated through the house. 

He spit the offensive concoction into the sink and frantically scraped his fouled tongue with a paper towel before it disintegrated entirely under the influence of the disgusting substance engulfing it. His tongue rubbed raw and his mouth still tingling, he seized the little card from its resting place, and scanned it for its flaw. The stupid recipe was wrong. He went through each ingredient, remembering very distinctly putting it in the big pot. 

Shortening…yes, he had a specific memory of wondering, as he carefully measured it, how something so gross could make so delicious a flavor. Unsweetened chocolate…yes, he clearly recalled breaking it into sections and then breaking each section in half before putting it in the pot, a piece at a time. Sugar. Sugar…sugar….Sugar.

Oh.

Not one to knowingly blame the innocent, he quickly revised his position and made a mental note that sugar, especially four cups of it, is probably crucial to the success of a batch of brownies. And always one to laugh at himself, he immediately edited the recipe card, adding (putz) after the word sugar.

I love the visual of him spewing brownie and then laughing his hearty laugh at himself. I suspect his mother got a tremendous kick out of the murder of her ever-so-simple brownie recipe, and I can hear the two of them laughing at each subsequent telling of the story. 

I made the brownies for him for the first time the night he told me the story, and as I presented them to him, I was still chuckling at the visual of him spewing the would-be brownies all over the sink. 

“Wow, what did you make?” He scooped up a big square and bit into it with abandon.

“Your mother’s brownies,” I announced. 

“Mmmmm,” he said through a mouthful of brownie, flashing his most charming smile at me.  “I love that you made yours with sugar.”

SUGAR (PUTZ) BROWNIES 

 

(I’ve made some changes. The card gives you Houdini’s ingredients; I’ve given mine below. Both make delicious brownies.)

Ingredients

 

1 1/3 cups butter

8 oz. dark chocolate or unsweetened chocolate

Dark chocolate chips to taste (I use a full bag, plus some)

4 cups sugar

4 teaspoons good vanilla

8 eggs

3 cups unbleached all purpose flour

½ teaspoon salt

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees (F)

Grease and flour an 8 x 12 cake pan (Or, if, like us, you like a lot of sides and top, grease 2 of them.)

1.  In a big pot, melt the butter and chocolate.

Remove from heat and add the sugar and vanilla, thoroughly incorporating each ingredient before adding the next.

2.  Add the eggs, one at a time, incorporating each thoroughly. Add the flour and salt. Mix thoroughly.

Pour into the prepared pan (or pans), and add the chocolate chips to the top. 

(The chips will sink a bit during baking because of their weight. If you like them in the bottom of the baked brownie, add them to the mix prior to pouring it into the pans. Sometimes I pour some peanut butter chips onto half of the batter, too.)

Tap the filled pan on the counter a couple of times.  It helps pop air bubbles as it settles the batter evenly in the pan.

3.  Bake for 45 to 60 minutes*, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. (This can be a trick since it’s just as easy to hit a chocolate chip, making your toothpick look gooey and wet. You’ll have to judge the difference between batter and melted chip if, like me, you put so many chips in that you can’t possibly find a chip-free zone.)

*Note that your baking time will be cut in about half, depending on your oven, if you've used two big baking dishes instead of one. 

And there you have Sugar (Putz) Brownies.

 GraphicsFairy