I don't remember the exact year. But I do remember that one year my father decided he wanted to find the perfect recipe for a brownie. He wanted the end result to be shiny on the top and chewy on the inside. He tried a lot of variations. Some came out cakey, others chewy but not shiny. Night after night or maybe it was week after week? Anyway, he made a lot, and we happily acted as taste testers. I suspect that one night he finally arrived at the perfect balance of ingredients because he has never since baked a batch of brownies.
---- Two of my friends, or so the story goes, were debating the merits of homemade brownies vs. box brownies (a mix). The end result was a bake-off with a subsequent taste test. No one could tell the difference. A tie? --- The next story is not mine to tell. Nor will I tell you whose it is to tell to protect the parties involved. In fact, it may not have happened because the original narrators were unreliable at the time. After partaking of some pot, munchies were often the predictable outcome which led frequently to the baking of brownies. Being high and following directions do not always make the best companions and one night at a critical moment nobody remembered the sugar. "Life's brownies," they agreed, giggling to one another, "because life is not always that sweet." ---- What? You want my favorite brownie recipe. Gee, gosh, I thought you'd never ask. I went as far as the NESTLÉ® TOLL HOUSE® Baking Cocoa container. Right on the side they have the recipe I use. I am so lazy that currently I have the empty Nestle box in my cupboard so I have the recipe on hand in case I buy a different brand of Cocoa Powder. I know it is on the internet too. Where do you think I went to cut and paste the following recipe? Ingredients 1 2/3 cups granulated sugar 3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter or margarine, melted 2 tablespoons water 2 large eggs 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour 3/4 cup baking cocoa (the NESTLÉ® company would most certainly tell you their's is the best) 1/2 teaspoon baking powder 1/4 teaspoon salt 3/4 cup chopped nuts (optional) Powdered sugar (optional) [if you don't have powdered sugar, you can make some by putting regular sugar in a coffee/nut grinder or in a food processor] Directions PREHEAT oven to 350º F. Grease 13 x 9-inch baking pan. COMBINE granulated sugar, butter and water in large bowl. Stir in eggs and vanilla extract. Combine flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt in medium bowl; stir into sugar mixture. Stir in nuts. Spread into prepared baking pan. BAKE for 18 to 25 minutes (sometimes a little longer) or until wooden pick (I use a metal fork) inserted in center comes out slightly sticky. Cool completely in pan on wire rack. Sprinkle with powdered sugar. Cut into bars.
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I have been thinking all week about the events in Ferguson. Whether or not you believe that the shooting of Michael Brown was racially motivated, I hope that out of this we can try again to have a conversation about race in this country and do something to improve status quo. Because even if we somehow find out that in this particular case the police officer was shooting out of self-defense, the reaction of the townspeople of Ferguson demonstrate that there have been racially motivated incidents in the past that have led to this deep distrust.
I have been trying to think about what I can add to the conversation. Can I give an example where I have experienced or been witness to racism? Sure. Have I ever done/thought/said anything even a little bit racist? Well, yeah. However, I have read so many strong testimonials this week, my stories only resonate as a faint echo. Because conversations around race can quickly put people on the defensive, I offer up a baby step question that helps me listen to other people's stories: When did you first become conscious of race? Tell your story. I don't think this question resolves the issue. However, when you hear enough stories, they stop being anecdotal and start to become bigger than a coincidence. Eleven years old when they started. Mistaking them for a greeting, I would wave. Then, thinking they were for someone else, I started looking behind me wondering who else was on the sidewalk.
A year or two into high school, I cut my hair short. As I walked I hoped they wouldn't look too closely. I wore my brother's hand-me-down jeans and old sweats. As often as you hear that somehow clothes are the reason, my experience tells me that female is all the provocation needed. At best it is another example of a good walk spoiled. Anonymous men invading personal space, interfering with a peaceful walk or intruding upon a powerful thought or a pleasant memory. Sometimes I can laugh it off. Never once do I feel sexier, more confident, or admired. On other days, when my escape route is not close at hand, I fill with anger to cover fear. Need more: Explanation #1 [How to be an ally] Explanation #2 [caution, graphic] In 1994 I joined the Peace Corps. First, I spent 3 months in Costa Rica for training and then two years as a PCV in Panama. My site was pretty far from Panama City and far from fellow volunteers. Nowadays, volunteers have access to cell phones and even limited internet. Back then, not so much. Tonight I started going through a couple of letters.
Here is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to my brother while I was still in Costa Rica: So which game did you see? Who won? I know that it is all over now but people were pretty into the World Cup here. [Ya think?] I talked on the phone for the first time today in Spanish. 1st w/my friend from Pearson 2nd on the answering machine to a friend of a friend (we’ll see if that one works.) 3rd with some lady who did not understand anything I said, nor I her 4th w/my aunt here A month after I sent that letter, with my very limited Spanish ability, I had my site visit to Pitaloza Arriba which according to my then interpretation from Peace Corps' information sheet was: Mostly agriculture and moo cows. In the mountains but not too far from the ocean. I have a phone in my town and running water but no electricity. 4 little shops*, school and church. 200 people and 44 families. *When I got to the site I found out how very little those shops were. I lived in Panama City after leaving the Peace Corps and returned to my site many times during that time and also during trips that I have made to the country since moving back to the States. Here some select quotes from my first letter home. I never feel more American than when I travel. This can be both a positive and negative thing. Exposed below: I've only been here since Friday so all of this is very first impressions. I think I had a “date” last night. I went walking down the road with some neighbor of mine, and he bought me a coke. I better start creating my own interesting, incredible boyfriend for myself! So far I have watched cattle being branded; planted corn and beans in very clay soy with a bunch of padres de la escuela at the school; been eaten by mosquitoes, ants, and unidentified insects; watched a 3 year old run around and yield a machete; had my ‘clean’ water taken out of tank (the waterline broke for a day) with a container suspiciously brown and gray. I washed it today and indeed it was covered in mildew. I've had every guy in town come by to check me out, all on various errands; I have random chickens, dogs, cats, and children walking through the house on a rather regular basis, but don’t worry we are civilized here. We have a car battery operated TV. I also "helped" process some rice. Pretty cool, eh. I only understand ¼ of what goes on around me on a good day. However, I am strangely contented. Scared and excited. Thanks for joining me on a side trip down memory lane. I went to an international school for two years of high school. There were students from seemingly everywhere, including Israel and Palestine. The Israelis and Palestinians were generally good friends. They had a lot in common. They shared a troubled but common history. They could talk about food and reminisce about home.They knew about each other's politics. They could debate with someone who actually knew what they were talking about. Far away, in Canada, they understood each other.
We used to joke after the first snows that the Palestinians were the best at snow ball fights. All that practice with rocks. We thought we were so clever. I quickly learned through trial and error with my Israeli friends that sarcasm is not universally understood or appreciated. I guessed there was no room for gray in a war zone. I met one of my Israeli classmates ten years after high school. He told me of the bus he missed only to see it blow up before his eyes, taking with it several of his friends. My own cousin went to Israel on his birthright trip. He found a home he did not expect. He went back, completed his army training, and now lives and works there. My Palestinian friends went back after high school. They have lost so much. Neighbors, friends, family. It must be the human capacity for hope that keeps them going. Both sides are guilty of atrocities. Both sides bear witness to the amazing strength of the human spirit. Now I read the edges of the news, full of conflicting opinions, selfishly praying that my loved ones, loved ones on both sides of the conflict, are safe. We are limited by failure to imagine a solution. I hope that Israel and Palestine will one day find a new way to reimagine their coexistence. |
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