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Tag: random

C is for Cinnamon Rolls #atozchallenge

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Day C of the 2013 Blogging from A to Z April challenge. Today’s topic: cinnamon rolls.

I love to cook and bake. Unfortunately though I’m not a big eater, so I generally try to give away most of the food I make. Leftover risotto or lasagna can easily find a home; whole carrot cakes and several dozen cookies, not so much.

One thing I don’t have a problem devouring are these cinnamon rolls. My six-year-old son, who’s inherited my love of baking-not-eating, eats three of these in one sitting. He made them for Easter breakfast (I read the directions while he got out the ingredients, measured, and mixed), and since they were so yummy and easy, I want to share the recipe.

Cinnamon Rolls

In your bread machine, combine the following: 1 c milk, 1/4 c softened butter, 1 egg, 3 c flour (I throw in some gluten too because I don’t use bread flour), 1/2 c sugar, 1/2 tsp salt, 2 tsp cinnamon, and 2 tsp yeast. Set to dough setting.

After the dough is done, combine 3/4 c brown sugar, 1/4 c flour, 1 tbsp cinnamon, and 1/3 c chopped cold butter until it resembles course crumbs. Divide the dough in half and on a floured surface roll out to a 12″x8″ rectangle. Sprinkle half the brown sugar mixture on each and roll up, starting with a long edge. Cut into 12 pieces and arrange in a greased 13″x9″ cake pan. Cover the pans and allow to rise for 30 minutes in a warm place. Bake at 375 for 20 minutes.

To make the glaze, combine powdered sugar, 1 tsp vanilla, 2 tbsp softened butter, and 3-4 tbsp milk. Pour on top.

Enjoy!

Finding the right place to write part 2

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A couple weeks ago I posted about one of my favorite places to write.  Here’s another spot I like (although this one tends to be more for reading than writing, at least recently).

Although this spot tends to see more traffic than spot #1 (photographers and birders watching the bald eagles in nearby trees, joggers and bikers and dog walkers along the path), it’s right next to the river, providing a soothing backdrop of the water going over the dam. There are multiple places to sit: park benches on that overlook on the right, rocks on the river bank, and grassy spots perfect for a blanket.

Plus this is really close to where I live, so I can easily stop by when I need some time to read, write, or just sit and think.

A picture is worth a hundred stories

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One of my hobbies is genealogy. I love the research aspect of it – hunting for overlooked relatives with misspelled names on censuses, finding an elusive obituary with my mad Google skills, identifying a long-lost relative that cracks open a whole new branch.

More than that though, I love the stories that make my ancestors come alive. Unfortunately, all that’s usually passed down is names and dates, with nothing that makes someone a real living person.  But occasionally, you come across an old photo that gives you tons of details into the life of someone who died decades or centuries ago.

I’m lucky that my grandmother and great-grandmother both loved not only taking pictures of their daily lives, but scrapbooking as well.  I’m in possession of boxes of old photos that I’m slowly scanning to share with relatives scattered around the globe.

I recently scanned my grandmother’s wedding album, and tonight when she was over for dinner, I asked her to identify someone in one of the pictures.

Rather than just confirm that the man hiding in the back row is indeed her stepfather, she told me about where the picture was taken (her mom’s dining room), details about the furniture (that cabinet is made with all pegs, no nails), and what the wedding party went on to do (marriage, dentistry).

She further explained that she and the maid of honor were best friends and frequently double-dated. The maid of honor didn’t like my future grandfather, and my grandmother didn’t like the maid of honor’s future husband (the best man in this wedding, who was good friends with my grandfather). So one night when the two guys asked the two girls out, my grandma and her friend blew them off instead. The young men wanted to know why, and the girls just said, “Eh.” This happened again the next week, so my grandpa asked my grandma to go skating with him, solo.  They were married six months later.

Looking at this picture, there are so many other stories (all true): a woman who left a man to marry his brother. Another woman who left her own husband to run off with an older married man and live under an alias while they traveled the country as truck drivers during the Depression. A bootlegger uncle. An arranged marriage. A mother who sent her young illegitimate son to live with family in America. An overly-protective mother who undermined her child’s marriage. A woman left widowed with 5 kids after her husband killed himself.

What can your old pictures tell you?

Finding the right place to write

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Like most people, I have the best intentions when I sit down in front of my computer to tackle a project, be it writing a story, researching a setting, applying for jobs, etc.

And like most people, I tend to get distracted. There are forums and instant messages and Cracked.com, a cat grooming herself on my feet wanting to be noticed and fed, snacks and drinks and late night burger runs, Spider Solitaire, and so on.

Fortunately, I’ve found a great place to write:

There’s no internet except what I can get with my phone. Very few people around. A clean bathroom. A great view (visible from my car too; I don’t sit outside if it’s cold or rainy).

Where do you go to write, read, or just get away from life for short bursts?

    Finding motivation in the arts

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    My dad has always tried to instill in me a love of music.

    me at 3 or 4

    Since I’ve moved back to my hometown, I’ve become my dad’s concert buddy.  There’s a local place that hosts smaller rock and blues bands, plus a couple college towns within driving distance that have shows as well.

    We caught a show this past weekend.  While I enjoyed the music, I was far more interested in the musicians themselves, and the crowd watching them.

    The band leader is the guy on the left. A seasoned guitarist, he didn’t care about the audience; he was just there to play music.  He barely talked to the crowd of about 50 or so, barely smiled; just stood there and played.

    I took this picture with my phone, so the quality’s kinda bad, but you can kinda make out the scowl on the drummer’s face. He played pretty basic rhythm for the entire show, except when his bandmates ducked out for a smoke break and he got a solo.  He was great – animated, smiling, really showing off. He’s not happy about his (lack of a) role in the band.

    And then there’s the bassist on the right, striking a Jesus/God’s gift to women pose. He played the crowd all night, with lots of hip-thrusting posturing.

    And at least part of the crowd ate it up.  A group of middle-aged women in much younger clothes danced in front of the stage, and one woman in particular made eyes at the band the whole time.  After the show, before we left, I saw her chatting up the band, probably hoping to not go home alone.

    I’ve noticed at these shows that I get a lot of story ideas. I keep a little notebook in my purse, and I’ll jot down notes, character sketches, even whole scenes. Now, I just need to find the time to finish all these stories.

    If you’re a writer, what ordinary life activities inspire your stories?

    Recipe for cream of awesome soup

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    It snowed today.  Only 3-4 inches, not a lot for northwest Illinois, but more than we’ve gotten at once for the past couple years.

    When I was a kid, I remember it snowing all the time.  We’d go out sledding in the field across from our neighborhood. We’d pretend to be Arctic explorers bravely walking across the frozen pond, then running back to shore at full speed when someone thought they heard the ice crack. We’d make snow forts.  One year, on a snow day, my brother and I made a snowman on the roof (my mom was not happy about that).

    Now, snow is just snow.  It’s still pretty to watch, but it’s also figuring out what to do with the kid if school is cancelled. It’s navigating slippery roads filled with a mix of overly-cautious and overly-aggressive drivers. It’s shoveling and melted puddles on the floor to avoid.

    It’s also the perfect time to curl up with a book, or a notebook to write in, and a big bowl of homemade cream of awesome soup.

    What, you’ve never heard of cream of awesome soup?  I’ve made it probably half a dozen times this winter, each time with whatever ingredients I’ve had on hand.  What I like most about it, besides how easy it is to make, is that it can be healthy too; you’re cutting out a lot of the sodium that most canned and commercial soups have. I don’t give any set amounts because so much of what makes cream of awesome soup awesome is that it’s whatever you want it to be. 

    Cream of Awesome Soup

    1. Start with a big heavy nonstick pot. Pour in 8-10 c chicken stock (I prefer making my own, but you can also use store made, or just water and bouillon – although use only 1/2 tsp per cup of water, as you can always add more later).
    2. Add some diced veggies.  Carrots, potatoes, celery, parsnips, broccoli, cauliflower, spinach, corn – whatever you have on hand.  Throw in some pepper and herbs too – rosemary, thyme, bay leaves, parsley, sage, a dash of chili powder, etc. I suggest leaving salt out until the very end, because depending on what else you add (especially ham or cheese), it can really increase the saltiness. Simmer on med-low.
    3. Now make a roux to thicken the soup. In a separate pan, sauté a chopped onion or leek in some olive oil or butter over medium heat.  Add diced garlic and grated ginger, if you have any. Once the onion/leek is soft, dump in 1/2-1 c flour.  Stir until the onion/leeks are coated, then pour in 2-3 c milk.  Stir constantly on low heat until it’s really thick, and then add it to your broth and veggies.
    4. At this point, decide how chunky you want your soup. If you like chunks of veggies, leave it how it is. If you want a creamier soup, once the veggies are soft either scoop most of the chunks out and puree them in a blender or food processor, mash them with a potato masher, or – my favorite – use an immersion blender (you can get a decent one at Target for $20). I’ve also thrown in leftover mashed potatoes to make the soup creamier; you could probably use instant ones as well.
    5. Once you have your soup the consistency you want, add some meat.  Diced ham, chicken, turkey, bacon, whatever you want. To make it more filling, add barley, already-cooked rice, or already-cooked egg noodles. Cheese goes well with potato, broccoli, and spinach soups.
    6. Taste it and season accordingly.  More salt? More bouillon? More milk or water?  Then let simmer for a couple hours – the longer it cooks, the more it’ll thicken.

    What’s your favorite way to spend a snowy day? Any favorite recipes you like to make on them?

    Pop vs soda

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    It’s a preference that divides families, outs you as someone not from around these parts, and makes whoever’s not in the majority an object of ridicule.

    It’s the age-old question that no one can agree on: pop vs soda?

    (I found an interesting overview of the history of names for carbonated beverages, if you’re interested in taking a look.)

    photo from the Pop vs Soda Page

    In the part of Illinois where I grew up, everyone called it pop.

    My relatives in St. Louis liked to point out how wrong we are because down there, it’s soda.

    Going to college in southern Indiana, I was confused as to how you can order a coke when you really want a Diet Pepsi.

    After I moved to North Carolina, I knew that whatever you chose to call it – soda or coke – it wasn’t a pop.

    Living in North Dakota felt a bit like coming home – it’s pop up there – but it felt weird to call it that after nearly a decade of being around people calling it soda.

    So now that I’m back in my hometown, I still call it soda.  My son, like any bilingual child, uses the two interchangeably.  My dad, perhaps harkening back to an idyllic/imaginary childhood in the 50’s (or perhaps just trying to be funny), often calls it sodee–pop.

    When it comes up in a story, I check this handy website to make sure my characters are saying it right for their location.

    What do people call it where you live?  How do you react when someone calls it something different?

    This is not the story you’re looking for

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    My dad enjoys watching crime show reruns: Law and Order, Gunsmoke (yes, that’s a crime show; it just happens to be set in Dodge 150 years ago), CSI, etc, and sometimes I’ll watch with him.

    Marshall Matt Dillon always saves the day; picture from TVLand website

    The culprits are usually pretty predictable: the rich doctor didn’t kill the prostitute; his jealous wife did it and framed him. The stressed young mother’s baby wasn’t kidnapped; she killed him when he wouldn’t stop crying (a scenario that unfortunately happens in the real world).  The prominent rancher’s son is an out-of-control jerkwad, so when he tries to kill a vagabond, the dad shoots his son.

    So as I watch, I don’t focus on the main story; I focus on the secondary characters.  How does that doctor rebuild his life and practice after what his wife has done? How does the baby’s father start a new family knowing his girlfriend killed their baby and he couldn’t prevent it? How does the rancher make peace with his actions?

    Those, to me, are much more intriguing stories.

    And I’m not alone in thinking this.  A cousin recently asked for reading recommendations; Wicked was something that came up.  If you’re not familiar with the book by Gregory Maguire (and the musical based on it), it’s The Wizard of Oz from the wicked witch’s perspective.

    And my son enjoys Jon Scieszka’s The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, which is the wolf’s explanation of what exactly happened to the pigs and their houses.

    I tried adapting this approach in my classroom as well.  My kids were always begging to watch movies, so about once a semester I’d give in.  One time we watched The Pursuit of Happyness, where Will Smith is a homeless guy interning without pay as a stock broker.  One of the twenty interns would be hired at the end.  I had my students write essays from the perspective of one of the guys not chosen: how would they feel to work for six months or whatever without pay, and not be chosen? How would they feel towards Will Smith’s character, and would that change if they knew he was homeless? How would they explain to their families that they weren’t chosen?

    When you read, do you focus on what the other characters might be thinking and feeling? Any examples of famous books or movies that are from the antagonists’ or secondary characters’ POVs?

    The role of death

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    Last Friday, twenty six- and seven-year-old kids and six adults at an elementary school were killed when a man gunned them down with an assault rifle.  I’m still reeling from this, as are many people around the world.  The tragedy hit home because my own son is a kindergartner, and all I can think is, “What if that had been his school?  His class?”

    It’s not as if death isn’t everywhere.  In the last decade, my grandmother, favorite uncle, ex-mother-in-law, and college-aged cousin have passed away.  I’ve lost classmates and classmates’ parents.  Just today, my ex-brother-in-law passed away after a long illness.

    And it’s not as if I shy away from death in what I write.  I’ve killed characters in so many different ways: zombie attacks and magical flesh-eating potions, cancer and heart attacks, sniper attacks and IEDs, car accidents, murders and suicides.

    When my characters die, it’s for a reason like character development, or as a plot device. I’m controlling who dies, and why.  My readers might not like what happens, but I hope they can see that it has a purpose.

    But that doesn’t work for what happened on Friday.  There’s no reason for these children to have been killed. I’m not going to get into the politics of how to prevent another massacre; there are plenty of others debating that across the internet.  I’ll just repeat what I just wrote: There’s no reason for these children to have been killed.

    Although it’s no comfort, I’m going to remember the words of Mark Twain: “It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.”  When something like this happens, it doesn’t make sense.  Twenty-six families burying their children and loved ones.  A grieving community, a grieving world, appalled that this happened.

    And then I’m going to give my son extra hugs.

    Staying true to YOUR voice

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    Rapper/Somali-antiviolence-advocate K’naan recently had a post in the New York Times about the importance of staying true to your voice and ideas.

    Read the whole thing here; it’s worth it.

    If you’ve never heard of him, K’naan is a rapper from Somalia.  He was on one of the last flights out of Mogadishu before the country exploded in civil war in 1991.  He lived in a Somali community in Toronto, where he put out several small albums.  He got a lot of attention with “Wavin’ Flag,” which was used for the 2010 World Cup.

    Earlier this year, he put out an album featured Jay-Z and Nellie Furtado, and it wasn’t nearly as good as his other albums – but it got a bigger audience.  In his essay, he talks about why. While he focuses on music, I think it’s something to keep in mind when it comes to our stories too.

    Here’s the song “Fatima,” which I think is one of his best.  And here he is performing “Is Anybody Out There.”

    What do you think about his decision to publicly try to reclaim his walk?  What would you do in his situation?  How important is it to stay true to your voice and your ideals compared to being successful? Can you sell out for awhile, get successful, and then come back to your ideals with a bigger audience – and would you ever do that?

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