Category: Life

Shakin’ and Bakin’


After 2 months of a blessedly uneventful start to middle school, today, he forgets to lock the house.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. And, as usual when my child downloads alarming information, Mommy-mode kicks in, and my focus is on allaying his fears so that he doesn’t trip on the stairs as he climbs into the bus.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You have a great day, ok?”

My next-door neighbor, who works from home, does not answer my call. He is a sound sleeper.

I decide to take my chances, until I remember that we replaced the hinges on the side door a couple of weeks ago, and it still doesn’t shut properly without careful attention.

Visions of my cat-eating dog, loose, and free to eat what she may, viciously flash across my brain, complete with dripping, red background…

Patricia answers on the second ring, as she carefully negotiates the car-rider lane in front of the school.

“Sure!”, she answers without hesitation, as I envision two potentially horrific scenarios.

“Um…What do I do if they are out?”, she asks, with a voice that tells me she is measuring traffic in an effort to make a turn.

“Stay in your car!”, I almost shout, as I imagine my friend, who is violently afraid of dogs, dealing with the blood-dripping cat-eater.

My phone rings, again, as she climbs the driveway in front of my house.

“The door is closed, honey.”, she manages, in a tight voice, not yet given to relief.

I tell her where to find the key, and, my pathetically frightened friend braves the door, and the pouncing, barking, cat-eating dog on the other side of it, as she inserts the key, and finishes the job…

And, tonight, I bake, in thanks.

While I don’t always enjoy cooking, I do enjoy baking, and, especially baking for a reason, and, particularly, baking for other people.

Tonight, I got to do both. I strapped on the IPOD, and cinched up my apron, as I pulled out recipes I had settled on earlier today.

I am baking “Butterscotch Blondies”, courtesy of Alexis Stewart of “Whatever” on Sirius radio,(A guilty pleasure that makes my daily commute doable.), and, “Pretzel Yummies”, a recipe I’ve made only once before, but which is requested on a weekly basis…

I had a great night! Below, I’ve included some pictures, and samples of music that accompanied me along the way. Come have fun with me!

My resident taster…

“Butterscotch Blondies”, fresh from the oven…


My crumb-catcher…


Coating for the “Pretzel Yummies”


“Pretzel Yummies”, complete

Presentation is everything…

The total package…


Baking is hard work…

And my music….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Shakin’ and Bakin’

>
After 2 months of a blessedly uneventful start to middle school, today, he forgets to lock the house.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. And, as usual when my child downloads alarming information, Mommy-mode kicks in, and my focus is on allaying his fears so that he doesn’t trip on the stairs as he climbs into the bus.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You have a great day, ok?”

My next-door neighbor, who works from home, does not answer my call. He is a sound sleeper.

I decide to take my chances, until I remember that we replaced the hinges on the side door a couple of weeks ago, and it still doesn’t shut properly without careful attention.

Visions of my cat-eating dog, loose, and free to eat what she may, viciously flash across my brain, complete with dripping, red background…

Patricia answers on the second ring, as she carefully negotiates the car-rider lane in front of the school.

“Sure!”, she answers without hesitation, as I envision two potentially horrific scenarios.

“Um…What do I do if they are out?”, she asks, with a voice that tells me she is measuring traffic in an effort to make a turn.

“Stay in your car!”, I almost shout, as I imagine my friend, who is violently afraid of dogs, dealing with the blood-dripping cat-eater.

My phone rings, again, as she climbs the driveway in front of my house.

“The door is closed, honey.”, she manages, in a tight voice, not yet given to relief.

I tell her where to find the key, and, my pathetically frightened friend braves the door, and the pouncing, barking, cat-eating dog on the other side of it, as she inserts the key, and finishes the job…

And, tonight, I bake, in thanks.

While I don’t always enjoy cooking, I do enjoy baking, and, especially baking for a reason, and, particularly, baking for other people.

Tonight, I got to do both. I strapped on the IPOD, and cinched up my apron, as I pulled out recipes I had settled on earlier today.

I am baking “Butterscotch Blondies”, courtesy of Alexis Stewart of “Whatever” on Sirius radio,(A guilty pleasure that makes my daily commute doable.), and, “Pretzel Yummies”, a recipe I’ve made only once before, but which is requested on a weekly basis…

I had a great night! Below, I’ve included some pictures, and samples of music that accompanied me along the way. Come have fun with me!

My resident taster…

“Butterscotch Blondies”, fresh from the oven…


My crumb-catcher…


Coating for the “Pretzel Yummies”


“Pretzel Yummies”, complete

Presentation is everything…

The total package…


Baking is hard work…

And my music….

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Rising to the Challenge


I subscribe to a blog on which the writer has posted her picture every morning for 30days, fresh from the rack, sans make-up, and without the benefit of a hairbrush. Yesterday, on day 29, she challenged all of her readers/voyeurs to contribute their photos to the final display. Several did, I among them.

In a summary of her experience, she mentioned the emotions evoked by receiving our pictures, and recognized the fact that some might not understand the importance.

But, I do.

Women, in particular, are taught, from a very early age, that their early morning faces are somehow lacking, and unattractive. The entire cosmetics industry is, in fact, dependent upon a mixture of this artificially ingrained, low self-esteem and natural human competitiveness.

I have written before of my earliest experimentations with face paint, and the clandestine, early morning visits to the girl’s restroom, where I vied alongside many other desperate pre-teens, for a place in front of the mirror. Since that time, I have worn make-up of various brands, in various colors, and in varying amounts.

For years, I went without foundation, painting only my eyes and lips. Later, I slathered on the stuff, opting for an oil-free formula that claimed to control break-outs, while covering zits. Sadly, at the time, the contradiction evaded me. Now, I find myself on the opposite end of the spectrum, as I choose a foundation with multiple moisturizers to control fine lines, while promising to cover wrinkles; and I am completely aware of the dichotomy. I pay more for it now than I did then, but that’s ok, “because I’m worth it”.

My lids have been blue, green, brown, and pink, and always lined. Just as I mastered the art of creating a single perfect line with a tiny paint-filled brush, pencil liners became all the rage. As I drew a single, artfully-smudged line behind my daughter’s lashes on prom night, her friend’s mother exclaimed, “Oh, you do that so well!”. And yet, every morning I still struggle to recreate the effect on my own, somewhat puffy, eyelids.

I am blessed with very long, very thick eyelashes. I say blessed, but, in truth, this too is a curse, because layers of sticky, black mascara tend to clump in thick eyelashes, resulting in the dreaded “spider eyes”. So, again, I pay more, but…..you know the drill.

There was a time, in my early 20’s, during which the only way you could see the “real” me involved a really good flashlight and a possible conviction for breaking and entering. By the time I reached my 30’s, I became more concerned about the quality of my skin, and, thus began to give my aging pores a break by going bare-faced on weekends, unless I had an “event”. I maintained this regime for many years…until Alice challenged me.

My first visit to her morning face evoked many of the same emotions I remember having as my parents and I walked the sideshow at a local fair. I remember thinking, “Oh, that’s interesting.”, and, “I wonder why she wants to do that?”

Before long, I was visiting everyday, and as I read the musings she posted alongside her picture, I began to feel the full weight of her exercise. In short, I became a fan. I found myself pulling for her. Mild interest had turned into rousing feelings of support, much like those I feel when watching my beloved Gators take the field. And, occasionally, I expressed those feelings in the form of a comment, in hopes that she would realize she was having an effect. After a week of starting every morning with her unfettered face, I found I no longer felt the need to paint. The image reflected back to me in my bathroom mirror was, suddenly, good enough. And, for one solid week, I truly “faced” the world.

I sat, in full make-up, as I read her challenge and responded, without hesitation. It was the least I could do….

Thinking back on it, the preparations I made are laughable. I washed, and carefully styled my hair, the night before. I rummaged through my lingerie drawer in search of something frilly, pretty, and flattering, and lay my selections at the bedside for easy access the next morning. I set my clock, while making a mental note that there could be no hitting the snooze button, come morning. I had a responsibility.

The comical noises emitted by my Fisher-Price alarm clock awoke me, as planned. And, as I rose, the chill of early autumn hit me, full force, and the frilly, pretty, flattering lingerie at my feet remained, at my feet. I stumbled, again, towards the bathroom mirror, ran one hand through hair that bore no resemblance to that I had lain upon my pillow, and grabbed the fattest, plushest, warmest robe I own. Cinching it close around me, I headed for the computer, and my camera.

Weeks ago, in hopes of receiving a photograph of a very different sort, a friend had reminded me that my camera had a timer. As I set it, and waited for the flash, I offered up silent gratitude for the tip, and my decision not to use it for his suggested purpose.

The result is an image of me that, before today, few have seen. And, it was remarkably easy, and marvelously freeing, and amazingly uneventful. It is me; just me.

And, it was the least I could do…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Rising to the Challenge

>
I subscribe to a blog on which the writer has posted her picture every morning for 30days, fresh from the rack, sans make-up, and without the benefit of a hairbrush. Yesterday, on day 29, she challenged all of her readers/voyeurs to contribute their photos to the final display. Several did, I among them.

In a summary of her experience, she mentioned the emotions evoked by receiving our pictures, and recognized the fact that some might not understand the importance.

But, I do.

Women, in particular, are taught, from a very early age, that their early morning faces are somehow lacking, and unattractive. The entire cosmetics industry is, in fact, dependent upon a mixture of this artificially ingrained, low self-esteem and natural human competitiveness.

I have written before of my earliest experimentations with face paint, and the clandestine, early morning visits to the girl’s restroom, where I vied alongside many other desperate pre-teens, for a place in front of the mirror. Since that time, I have worn make-up of various brands, in various colors, and in varying amounts.

For years, I went without foundation, painting only my eyes and lips. Later, I slathered on the stuff, opting for an oil-free formula that claimed to control break-outs, while covering zits. Sadly, at the time, the contradiction evaded me. Now, I find myself on the opposite end of the spectrum, as I choose a foundation with multiple moisturizers to control fine lines, while promising to cover wrinkles; and I am completely aware of the dichotomy. I pay more for it now than I did then, but that’s ok, “because I’m worth it”.

My lids have been blue, green, brown, and pink, and always lined. Just as I mastered the art of creating a single perfect line with a tiny paint-filled brush, pencil liners became all the rage. As I drew a single, artfully-smudged line behind my daughter’s lashes on prom night, her friend’s mother exclaimed, “Oh, you do that so well!”. And yet, every morning I still struggle to recreate the effect on my own, somewhat puffy, eyelids.

I am blessed with very long, very thick eyelashes. I say blessed, but, in truth, this too is a curse, because layers of sticky, black mascara tend to clump in thick eyelashes, resulting in the dreaded “spider eyes”. So, again, I pay more, but…..you know the drill.

There was a time, in my early 20’s, during which the only way you could see the “real” me involved a really good flashlight and a possible conviction for breaking and entering. By the time I reached my 30’s, I became more concerned about the quality of my skin, and, thus began to give my aging pores a break by going bare-faced on weekends, unless I had an “event”. I maintained this regime for many years…until Alice challenged me.

My first visit to her morning face evoked many of the same emotions I remember having as my parents and I walked the sideshow at a local fair. I remember thinking, “Oh, that’s interesting.”, and, “I wonder why she wants to do that?”

Before long, I was visiting everyday, and as I read the musings she posted alongside her picture, I began to feel the full weight of her exercise. In short, I became a fan. I found myself pulling for her. Mild interest had turned into rousing feelings of support, much like those I feel when watching my beloved Gators take the field. And, occasionally, I expressed those feelings in the form of a comment, in hopes that she would realize she was having an effect. After a week of starting every morning with her unfettered face, I found I no longer felt the need to paint. The image reflected back to me in my bathroom mirror was, suddenly, good enough. And, for one solid week, I truly “faced” the world.

I sat, in full make-up, as I read her challenge and responded, without hesitation. It was the least I could do….

Thinking back on it, the preparations I made are laughable. I washed, and carefully styled my hair, the night before. I rummaged through my lingerie drawer in search of something frilly, pretty, and flattering, and lay my selections at the bedside for easy access the next morning. I set my clock, while making a mental note that there could be no hitting the snooze button, come morning. I had a responsibility.

The comical noises emitted by my Fisher-Price alarm clock awoke me, as planned. And, as I rose, the chill of early autumn hit me, full force, and the frilly, pretty, flattering lingerie at my feet remained, at my feet. I stumbled, again, towards the bathroom mirror, ran one hand through hair that bore no resemblance to that I had lain upon my pillow, and grabbed the fattest, plushest, warmest robe I own. Cinching it close around me, I headed for the computer, and my camera.

Weeks ago, in hopes of receiving a photograph of a very different sort, a friend had reminded me that my camera had a timer. As I set it, and waited for the flash, I offered up silent gratitude for the tip, and my decision not to use it for his suggested purpose.

The result is an image of me that, before today, few have seen. And, it was remarkably easy, and marvelously freeing, and amazingly uneventful. It is me; just me.

And, it was the least I could do…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Lessons Learned…


I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

My parents never queried me on my work habits, preferring, instead, to remain oblivious as to how the grades were accomplished. All of my book reports, and class projects, were completed without their assistance, or comment. Our job, as children, was to attend school and make the grades. Theirs was to write checks and take a turn in the carpool line.

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

We were fortunate to find a tutor who was using her experience as fodder for her thesis, and thus worked gratis. Every morning, an hour before school started, our footsteps echoed against industrial tiles and concrete walls as we stumbled in. And, every evening, after the dinner dishes were done, he would pick up his flash cards as I laced up my sneakers, and we would walk. I never thought to measure the actual distance, but I know we logged many miles, walking in circles around our block, as he called out the answers while burning off his “boy” energy. As we tired, we turned, in tandem, into our drive and slumped into a wooden swing strung between two sturdy oaks. As I reclined against the arm-rest, he pumped his legs in time to his responses. This is how we made it through phonics, and the second grade.

Fast forward, over a decade. I have moved my family from a sleepy country town to a burgeoning, metropolitan suburb in hopes for the very best in opportunities, and education, for my youngest son. The curriculum is demanding, and those long, circular walks now seem like a walk in the park.

In first grade, at the age of five, he was directed to construct a musical instrument. I pored over online documents in search of the simplest example, in hopes of carrying on my parents’ tradition of limited participation. I finally settled on a percussion instrument of Native American heritage, which required hours of winding yarn around 2 sticks discarded by the towering pines in our backyard. My son wound for about 30 minutes before restlessness overcame him, and his pudgy, 5 year-old hands could do no more. The rest was up to me. The result was a haphazardly wrapped trapezoid which, when rubbed between 2 hands, made an occasional clicking sound.

Dressed in my suburban mother costume, I placed the carefully constructed, delicately woven, instrument in the bottom of a large box for safe-keeping, before sitting it in the backseat of the car. The special care we had taken with his hair, forced my son to hold his neck straight, arched, and away from the back of the seat, in hopes that it would remain in place. We were on our way to the presentation of the instruments.

Reluctantly handing him the box, we parted as he made his way, through a throng of students, to his classroom, and I turned towards the cafeteria, and the display area. As I walked among the tables, my heart skipped a beat as I realized my mistake. With one manicured hand placed over my mouth, I read the history of the mandolin before inspecting the carefully carved wood for juvenile imperfections. There were none.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

The next velvet draped table, featured eight, expensively etched, crystal glasses holding carefully measured amounts of variously colored liquid. A silver-handled, rubber mallet rested, luxuriantly, next to each one. Display boards, featuring computer generated graphics, blocked my view of the next table.

So…you wanna play hardball….

By fourth grade, I had adopted a new strategy. When the teacher assigned a report on The Revolutionary War, in which the student was to dress the part, I eagerly anticipated our role assignment. Thanks to Ebay, my son channeled Samuel Adams resplendently dressed in period costume, complete with powdered wig. As he traversed the hallways, no teacher was immune to his charm. It didn’t matter that he left out most of a paragraph of his report, as he stumbled over his presentation in true nine-year-old form. He dressed the part, and for that, he garnered a large, red, “A”.

Our next assignment was a scientific experiment involving, of all things, earthworms. Harking back to my upbringing, I sent my ten-year-old outside into the gardens with a shovel and pail. Southern drought had apparently chased the slimy creatures further underground, forcing my use of a larger shovel. We were expected to test ten. We settled for eight.

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

Fast forward, again, to today. I am sitting in rush-hour traffic, which due to our herculean, hurricane-contrived gas shortage, is decidedly lighter than it was one month ago, and my cell-phone rings.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Lessons Learned…

>
I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

My parents never queried me on my work habits, preferring, instead, to remain oblivious as to how the grades were accomplished. All of my book reports, and class projects, were completed without their assistance, or comment. Our job, as children, was to attend school and make the grades. Theirs was to write checks and take a turn in the carpool line.

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

We were fortunate to find a tutor who was using her experience as fodder for her thesis, and thus worked gratis. Every morning, an hour before school started, our footsteps echoed against industrial tiles and concrete walls as we stumbled in. And, every evening, after the dinner dishes were done, he would pick up his flash cards as I laced up my sneakers, and we would walk. I never thought to measure the actual distance, but I know we logged many miles, walking in circles around our block, as he called out the answers while burning off his “boy” energy. As we tired, we turned, in tandem, into our drive and slumped into a wooden swing strung between two sturdy oaks. As I reclined against the arm-rest, he pumped his legs in time to his responses. This is how we made it through phonics, and the second grade.

Fast forward, over a decade. I have moved my family from a sleepy country town to a burgeoning, metropolitan suburb in hopes for the very best in opportunities, and education, for my youngest son. The curriculum is demanding, and those long, circular walks now seem like a walk in the park.

In first grade, at the age of five, he was directed to construct a musical instrument. I pored over online documents in search of the simplest example, in hopes of carrying on my parents’ tradition of limited participation. I finally settled on a percussion instrument of Native American heritage, which required hours of winding yarn around 2 sticks discarded by the towering pines in our backyard. My son wound for about 30 minutes before restlessness overcame him, and his pudgy, 5 year-old hands could do no more. The rest was up to me. The result was a haphazardly wrapped trapezoid which, when rubbed between 2 hands, made an occasional clicking sound.

Dressed in my suburban mother costume, I placed the carefully constructed, delicately woven, instrument in the bottom of a large box for safe-keeping, before sitting it in the backseat of the car. The special care we had taken with his hair, forced my son to hold his neck straight, arched, and away from the back of the seat, in hopes that it would remain in place. We were on our way to the presentation of the instruments.

Reluctantly handing him the box, we parted as he made his way, through a throng of students, to his classroom, and I turned towards the cafeteria, and the display area. As I walked among the tables, my heart skipped a beat as I realized my mistake. With one manicured hand placed over my mouth, I read the history of the mandolin before inspecting the carefully carved wood for juvenile imperfections. There were none.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

The next velvet draped table, featured eight, expensively etched, crystal glasses holding carefully measured amounts of variously colored liquid. A silver-handled, rubber mallet rested, luxuriantly, next to each one. Display boards, featuring computer generated graphics, blocked my view of the next table.

So…you wanna play hardball….

By fourth grade, I had adopted a new strategy. When the teacher assigned a report on The Revolutionary War, in which the student was to dress the part, I eagerly anticipated our role assignment. Thanks to Ebay, my son channeled Samuel Adams resplendently dressed in period costume, complete with powdered wig. As he traversed the hallways, no teacher was immune to his charm. It didn’t matter that he left out most of a paragraph of his report, as he stumbled over his presentation in true nine-year-old form. He dressed the part, and for that, he garnered a large, red, “A”.

Our next assignment was a scientific experiment involving, of all things, earthworms. Harking back to my upbringing, I sent my ten-year-old outside into the gardens with a shovel and pail. Southern drought had apparently chased the slimy creatures further underground, forcing my use of a larger shovel. We were expected to test ten. We settled for eight.

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

Fast forward, again, to today. I am sitting in rush-hour traffic, which due to our herculean, hurricane-contrived gas shortage, is decidedly lighter than it was one month ago, and my cell-phone rings.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

God’s Music…


The air here is cool, and the humidity low. When night falls, an array of tiny, white lights twinkle between swaying branches.

Soft cushions pillow us as we sit in wrought-iron rockers, and rest our feet on wooden slats.

We sip, as we rock….

Night-sounds surround us…The chirping of insects, the trilling of tree frogs, and the intermittent call of a lonely bird…

Stars abound.

An occasional cloud floats, high above our heads, giving us reason to wonder, and an opportunity to create, as accompanying breezes play in our hair…

Will we talk, love? Will we remark on the loveliness of the geranium’s last blooms? Will we marvel on the palate of the wine, as it sits upon our tongues? Will we digest the contents of our day? Will we open up a Pandora’s Box of hopes and dreams?

Or will we sit silent, content with our condition; the air, the scenery, the wine, and God’s music…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>God’s Music…

>
The air here is cool, and the humidity low. When night falls, an array of tiny, white lights twinkle between swaying branches.

Soft cushions pillow us as we sit in wrought-iron rockers, and rest our feet on wooden slats.

We sip, as we rock….

Night-sounds surround us…The chirping of insects, the trilling of tree frogs, and the intermittent call of a lonely bird…

Stars abound.

An occasional cloud floats, high above our heads, giving us reason to wonder, and an opportunity to create, as accompanying breezes play in our hair…

Will we talk, love? Will we remark on the loveliness of the geranium’s last blooms? Will we marvel on the palate of the wine, as it sits upon our tongues? Will we digest the contents of our day? Will we open up a Pandora’s Box of hopes and dreams?

Or will we sit silent, content with our condition; the air, the scenery, the wine, and God’s music…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net