Goodbye Hostess

Heart-broken Twinkie lovers visited my Facebook page yesterday in the wake of Hostess Brands’ shutdown, opening a cultural peephole into the never-never land of What Consumers Want.  It was obvious to me that in this land of opportunity where giant appetites have gone addicted, Twinkies and Ho-Hos and Ding-Dongs hold shares in American sweet tooths.

The history of Twinkies is interesting – the tale begins in 1930 – but that’s not what grabs me right now.  Rather, I’m curious to know how this giant corporate food ziggurat grew in the first place, marshmallow-by-marshmallow, to uphold counterfeit foods that aren’t even foods at all, but rather slow toxic killers.  Some of us know the truth, while others just want to have their cake and eat it too, and really don’t care.

I know criticism of Hostess cakes sounds harsh, un-American, and theoretical rather than practical, so before you label me a hypocrite, here’s a true confession: I practically lived on Hostess Cupcakes (chocolate crème-filled cupcakes with chocolate frosting and that classic white squiggle on top) during my college years.  They were my staple.  Benevolent vending machines in every building provided cupcake-meals (would you believe two two-packs, or FOUR cupcakes at a time) for only a couple of silver quarters.  Because of those slot-machines with sweet payoff, I didn’t have to take time for real dinner.  A second confession: I still battle the inner monster I cultivated during that time.

All that to say, I get the addiction part.

But all these eons later, having grown older and wiser, I’ve been converted by the truth: what we cheerily name “junk food” truly is junk.  It trashes our bodies and minds, our whole selves.  However, as my second confession above says, I don’t pretend to be beyond the addictive shark-jaws of tyrannical Hershey bars and jelly beans (and fresh-baked cookies – oh my) in this senior phase, despite significant growth toward recovery.  I do, however, relish idyllic periods of total abstinence from sugar when everyday function reflects close-to-peak physical and emotional well-being for my age.

But I digress.  Here’s a ray of hope that could inspire those grieving the loss of the Hostess snack line… 

Recently I’ve been making gluten-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free desserts (some also all-raw, and goooood) that sometimes happen to be high-protein as well.  Just last week I baked a chocolate snack cake (almond flour, eggs, bitter chocolate, coconut oil, agave nectar and stevia) and topped it with gooey crème (cashews, vanilla, agave nectar and stevia, plus enough water to make it squishy-in-the-mouth like Twinkie filling).  It’s a bit on the rich (fatty) side, but at least the fats aren’t awful, one-molecule-away-from-plastic hydrogenated ones. I baked the cake batter in individual round ramekins – very cute – and then plopped the goo on top like thick whipped cream.  The result?  Mmmmmmauvelous, dreamy snack cake that snubs additive-laden Hostess Cupcakes. I named it Choco-Lot.

If you happen to be one of the frantic individuals grieving Hostess snack cakes (with their millennial shelf lives that could far outlive any of us) who is willing to pay ridiculous amounts for the soon-to-be infamous, last-ever boxes of Twinkies, take heart and lament no more.  All is not lost.  Choco-Lot, and other similar health-friendly alternatives, could be as near as your kitchen.

It's Coming!

Here’s the late-breaking news currently winding through the fallible neighborhood grapevine: poshness is coming to the boonies.

Lakeside culture doesn’t usually embrace poshness.  We’re sold out to relaxedness here.  And yet even we lake people (notorious for bare feet) have a sprinkling of royalty hiding out somewhere in our genes.  We clean up quite nicely.

New owners have taken over a large restaurant down the road.  Exterior log-look siding, currently being applied, suggests an outdoorsy lake-mood with a hint of swank.   Gossip says bacon-wrapped filet mignons, linen tablecloths, and ballroom dance music are headed our way. 

We’re sold out to swim suits and hamburgers on the grill, and yet this is exciting news.  With official retirement just around the corner, a glass of White Zinfandel with the chef’s special du jour over candlelight, and a waltz, sound like good weekly therapy – and all within walking distance.

Found It

“I’ll find it,” she said. 

I’d been blabbing on to Sandra about recent neck and back pain. 

“I’ll find it,” she repeated gently, as if to calm my descriptive anxieties.

“I’m sure you will,” I replied.  And, I WAS sure she would.

Sandra is my favorite therapeutic masseuse, ever.  To be honest, my only therapeutic masseuse, ever.  I think she’s gifted.  Her hands are lightning and velvet:  hot coals and heavy footsteps and ice slicks and baby cheeks. 

Sixty minutes later, my upper body was wrung out and rubbery.  She’d found “it”, a big knot in a muscle on the right side of my neck that was playing tug-of-war with one on the left.  The tugging muscle on the left had also spread the jolly fun all the way down the left side of my back. But it was all the fault of that bully on the right. 

I envision little eyes on the tips of all her fingers, looking inside with x-rays, down deep, checking out the interior body-scape, and then shooting relaxation ammo from lazer guns at just the right spots until I burn and freeze and numb and soften.  It’s amazing, really.

It would be nice if she lived in my closet, and I could pull her out at will.  Or in an envelope, in which case I’d send her via US Postal Service to some of you out there who could also benefit from her remedial touch.

Two Pools, Two Pokes, and Magic

Daybreak cracked the shell on the day, dripping dawn through the slits in the blinds, waking the room’s contours: door, oval mirror, bedside table where my silver hearing aid charger stared back with tiny yellow eyes that said yes, they’re charged and ready for you. Yawning, I reluctantly threw back the covers, stumbled into the kitchen, and swallowed my morning pills. 

The trash man hadn’t come yet.  Three old throw rugs I’d forgotten to take out sat rolled by the door.  I threw a coat over my green striped pj shorts and shirt, slipped on my oldest Birk clogs, and waddled across the yard with the rugs under one arm, tip-toeing through wet mud.  Rain had fallen all night.  The sharp wind cut my bare legs. I felt silly, and hoped the neighbors weren’t watching.

After depositing the rugs in our brown trash receptacle, I turned into the wind, pulled the coat collar tight around my neck, and hurried back toward the house, passing the pontoon boat - a whale-like Gray Hulk beached on our new trailer. 

Something was wrong.  One of the support poles had fallen down inside, allowing rain to accumulate in the cover's low spots and drag it down.  This was not good. 

I hurried inside, changed into old clothes, grabbed the small stepladder, and headed back to do rescue duty.  Getting into the boat would prove challenging; we’d made sure the cover was fastened down securely for the winter. I twisted my body between the straps (between the second and third straps in the picture if you count left to right), cocked open the side door, and slithered into the boat with reptilian grace.  Well, almost.  My right heel got stuck.

Inside, two engorged double-D-sized breasts full of water hung before me, flaunting their great size, pulling tensely on the rest of the cover.  I poked one with the support pole, deflating it - sawaaaash - and then the other – sawaaaash-ssh-sssssh - and propped the pole back in place. My job was done.

But wait. 

Enchantment. The wind sang a breathy, hoarse song outside. I sprawled in the dimly-lit cave, an adult child in a charmed tent aglow with soft dawn-light leaking through the fabric cover.  Isolation got busy - scrubbed me clean, removed blinders, inspired imagination.  Magic!  Like a quiet fetus, I lay inside this separated womb of space - this whale - that belonged to all that wild, thrashing life going on out there.

After a few minutes, at just the right moment, I knew I must go.  I pushed my feet through the slit opening between the pontoon and the strapped cover – sort of like probing a shoelace through an eyelet – and felt for the ladder.  It hadn’t tipped over.  Good.  I crawled out, emerging from the awe and uncomplicated wonder changed and better prepared to embrace the rest of the day.

The Lens

A perceptual cataract prevailed before this transparent opaque disc-of-a-lens began magnifying and clarifying everything for me in just the right way.

LOOK.  See how it twinkles in the light as I turn it back and forth, refracting more, always MORE, from somewhere beyond what is perceived with the naked eye?  Through the lens, both beauty and ugliness (components of the human experience) zoom up close and personal with a focus on….gratitude. To God.  Big, eternal, everlasting gratitude. Sweep-me-up-in-your-arms gratitude. Make-me-whole gratitude.

Why?  Because gratitude always precedes joy. It makes me whole and complete in the midst of deep-drilling arrows and drought that cracks low in the soul. I whisper thanks to God - let the eyes well up wet - and He is near, gracing with His love that heals, His renewing springs and rivers. The Psalmist says it in a few words: Happy is the people…whose God is the Lord.  (Ps. 144:15)

To the skeptics I say, the lens is not about distortion, but rather about seeing everything more clearly rather than less – seeing the world, and hours and minutes, from an other-worldly dispersion and perspective, one grounded before the beginning of time.  It’s about letting go of both resistance and idealism and sharpening heart-eyes to walk hand-in-hand with God through life, even life in the midst of death.  Yes, this is possible.  Yes, it is overlooked when the lens slides under the rug.  There is an art in learning to turn your head and heart just so – to see from a different viewpoint, through this lens.

How do I want to view the world situation, and the contours of my individual life, in this place and time between the Garden of Eden and the Garden of Eternal Paradise?    

Through a lens.  Of gratitude.

The Look

It was a sunny afternoon, September-warm rather than November-cold, and I kept thinking about him, wondering if he spent the day inside the house or out and about in the soft wind, exploring the waving grasses and mysteries of nature.  The memory of his eyes haunted me and replayed his questioning look: who am I, do I matter to you, do you believe in me, and how I am to live in this world?  What can you show me?  Should I trust you? Will you listen?  Will you care about the things that matter to me?  Will you explain to me what matters to you? Should I risk it, or play it safe? The look stayed with me, like a sharp arrow probing for answers as deep as it took.

It happened in a matter of seconds – so fast.  But in revisiting the look after-the-fact, I had the luxury of considering my answer and returning the gaze, thoughtfully if not verbally, if only to practice.  Maybe there will be another time.

My teacher friends who recognize these kinds of questions are not allowed to get close enough to discover the specific questions lurking behind them.  They risk serious reprimand, or worse, if they dare hug a student or “get personal” in conversation. In a purely objective and almost clinical way, the system requires they prove themselves according to their students’ good grades.

Meanwhile, my husband, who will retire as a college professor in a matter of weeks, feels a huge paradigm shift continues to define K-12 public education: it has become the teacher’s fault when a student performs poorly, rather than the student’s.  

Something is amuck.

One friend (an employee in my bakery when she was a college student), a committed 40-year-old elementary assistant principle and art teacher, insists the only way to educate children is to gain their trust and respect FIRST.  She contends academic goals can’t be fully reached without getting personal – without calling forth the inevitable questions lurking behind a student’s look (either probing or askance) and responding to them honestly.  Such relationship opens the door and invites the child to come outside in the fresh air of exploration, discovery, and learning…and become.

Dirty Work

Today’s lake-girl mission: clean and winter-wrap the pontoon boat. Alllll…hands…on…deck…!

Alas.  The crew. Clearly…absent. 

All those torpedo-ing swimmers and manly-pancake-grilling midnight card players (who kicked over a waxy citronella candle and left a grease ring and pancake batter) and little-kid-cracker-eaters and hairy dogs (well, just one dog) and fishermen who slimed black-black worm dirt everywhere - those crew who had a part in its current state - were obviously Somewhere Else.

No surprise.  I usually do the Cinderella work around here.  Aye, aye, some of us play and some of us scrub the deck.

With no responders in sight, I grabbed a big tub of hot water, three scrub brushes of different sizes, a handful of old rags, bottles of Tilex and Murphy soap and carpet cleaner, and went to work until my back and neck and shoulders screamed for mercy: “MUUUUTINY!”  But I cracked the whip and they kept working anyway, for a long time actually. A stern (tyrannical?) taskmaster, I am. 

Five hours later, I slithered down the one-foot-wide steps on the boat trailer like one of those cartoon characters gone flat and worm-like. At the bottom, suddenly aware of my limp body, I wondered about the alternative “better way” currently on the table. Very simple: don’t do it.  Let the pontoon boat get trashed.  Isn’t that why we bought an older, used boat in the first place? (This counsel straight from The Admiral.)

Personally, I’m FINE with old stuff, but not so fine with junky, neglected old stuff in the sense of invading green moss and black mold and obvious dirt (like black worm dirt in the cracks of the seats) that advertise compounding sloth and demean the boating experience. Those should not be allowed. 

REVEILLE is sounding.  Wake-up! If indeed I’m the only one who cares, I will continue to be the one-woman cleaning crew for this newest Mulie vessel.  But then Dirty Work has always been my middle name.