Red Velvet Blues

I regret not having any photographs from the tale I'm about to tell, but Amy was too busy throwing baking pans around the kitchen; noise which hopefully muffled any 4-letter words spewing from (our) spinning head like a busted fire hydrant in summertime.

So you'll have to visualize, just as I imagined my Red Velvet cake pops resembling this photo, blatently swiped from what I thought read 'Basics with Balls' - but it's actually 'Basics with Bails', here's Bailey's website to give full credit for her beautiful results.

Last fall I attempted, twice, to make Pumpkin Spice Cake Balls.  Cake Balls are simply crumbled up baked cake; mix in some frosting to bind; roll into balls; and coat with Almond Bark, Melting Wafers or Chocolate.  Simple, huh? The first time took me 6 hours and I made quite a mess, but they tasted really good and my co-workers enjoyed them.

So in honor of someone who was supposed to be leaving but has been delayed, I decided to try again, but with a different flavor.  I took a chocolate-dipping class in March and have since purchased a Wilton melting pot to make the process easier, so I was confident of better results.  I'd already picked up a box of Duncan Hines Red Velvet cake mix, a can of Pillsbury Cream Cheese frosting and a package of Almond Bark for whenever the mood struck.  I was prepared.

That was my first mistake - hubris.  I decided to be smart and make the pops in installments, so after finishing up Monday's morning shift I grabbed my stuff and ran to the staff-kitchen in the Clubhouse, for the spacious counters and dependable oven (RV ovens don't usually keep an even temperature).

Manager Rhonda, an excellent cook, was preparing a batch of breakfast burritos to freeze.  She always makes cooking look easy, but has long given up trying to encourage me to eat healthy or properly, as have most people I know.

It was fun - I felt like I was back in Mom's kitchen, trying to prepare something exotic.  Rhonda's younger than me but vastly more capable, so I hoped some of her talent spilled over onto me, like I did Mom.

Pulling the hand mixer out of the drawer, I tried not to appear too novice-like because I was surprised the beaters were already attached.  I brought my own eggs, oil, Pam and parchment paper.  Rhonda pointed me towards the mixing bowls and I was off and running.

"Why are you making these now," she asked.

"For the staff meeting Wednesday.  I'll even bring my ukulele," since I promised Bill E. I'd learn Tiptoe Through the Tulips.

The cake came out beautifully, if rather plain-looking in the rectangular pan.  I read somewhere to cut off the crusty outer edges before crumbling, so after it properly cooled I did so, presenting sweet-tooth co-worker Dave, second shift now, with a small bowl of scraps and a dollop of thick frosting on top.  He seemed pleased when he came back to ask if I roll them together to make the balls; Yes, after it's cooled and crumbled.

The Pumpkin Spice balls called for an entire can of frosting but someone recommending only using 3/4 or so.  I'd read so many different versions of the same recipe I was confused, so decided to only add 1/2 to 2/3 of the can, better to be on the safe side.

(Wearing gloves), I squished the crumbled cake with the frosting - then added another scoop of frosting; second mistake.  Uh-oh...is that the right consistency? I covered the Tupperware and stuck it in the fridge, hoping overnight would make it good and solid and magically fix anything I did wrong.

Next morning I was looking forward to Part 2, but something was wrong; I couldn't put my finger on it.  Mom always said (sic) when something tastes good, it's made with love; so I knew with my untenable mood the outcome might not be pretty.  Amy (my alter-ego, for newcomers) still threatens occasionally despite my success in better handling those moods and thoughts.

Lori was working the desk and we chit-chatted a bit, since we only work together once a week.  There's always catching-up to do.  Anyway, she went back to work and I turned my attention to prepping the workspace. (Photo: work area/kitchen off of main reception)

At some point a repeat guest came in to work on her sewing projects, aprons or something, which she's been doing for years while traveling with her husband, supplementing their retirement.  I'd seen her many times before but never engaged in small talk.

I must digress here to explain:  for three years my managers, who are terrific, have been diligently encouraging me to improve my Hospitality skills, bah, humbug.  And while all would agree I have improved significantly, there's still room for improvement.  I've told them many times, I don't talk to people unless I have to, and here was just such a challenge.

"Good morning," I finally spoke; and unfortunately the seamstress was off and running.  Never stopped talking and I really wasn't in the mood, but inside my head Amy and I were raging over our potential behavior.  I won by occasionally making a pleasant comment, almost killed me, and which only encouraged her to keep going.  I have no one to blame but myself, I scolded, while repeating inside my head, I can do this.  I knew it was a test, and I was determined to prevail.

During all this 'raging' I'm rolling my balls; except they're not sticking together.  I'm rolling and rolling while trying not to be distracted by the ongoing chatter; should I add more frosting?  I ran to the computer, a great excuse to flee the chatter if only for a moment, and Googled why are my cake balls are falling apart.

Numerous possible reasons, like why your plant is dying; but I believe 'too much frosting' was the culprit.  THAT's when I started looking up directions for Red Velvet vs other flavored pops, and discovered people only add 1/4 of the can of frosting to Red Velvet, DAMMIT! Who thought there'd be a difference?

Chatter chatter chatter.  God, this is what my ex's (except Tino) used to complain about me.  I put the balls back in the fridge and 1/2 hour later tried re-rolling them, with no better success.  I gently placed them on the parchment, hoping they'd stay together (like last fall's balls, left).

Chatter chatter. At least the Almosd Bark was melting nicely in the pot, glad I bought it, but boy, it's thick.  I began dipping the sticks in the bark then partially in to the cake balls.  First one ok; second split in half.  It was like that for most of the rest, but again, I hoped pinching the batter together and chilling them again would do the trick.

"What kind of sticks are those?"  Popsicle, go away.

What's aggravating you, girl?!  Worrying about that package you mailed to an Etsy buyer?  You over-packed, relax.  Dwelling on something which you can do nothing about?  It's not your problem anyway.  What else?

"Ooooh...what're you making?" another resident wandered in and stuck his nose...

"Cake pops, for the staff meeting," lest you think you're getting any.

He thought it was fondue and left.  Chatter resumed.  I took the 'stuck' balls out of the fridge and, concentrating on my task, plunged the first one into some of the melted bark I'd transferred to a small glass dish.  And where it promptly fell apart.

No, no!  I tried to scoop it out, but it only disintegrated more.  I tried spooning the bark over another pop, which summarily fell off the stick.  Dripping bark was making a mess as I wildly looked around for a MIRACLE.

"Oooh, I've had that kind of disaster."  I knew she was trying to be supportive but she was within arm's reach.

OMG, stand clear - she's about to blow!  I remained silent but my face was surely red, and the woman slinked away.

The bark was hardening - my gravy ladle, used to spoon out the melted bark, was stuck to the spoon rest and wasn't budging.

THAT'S IT!  ENOUGH!  Amy came out with a vengence, and that's when the first batch was summarily dumped into the trash, the pan tossed into the stainless sink.  _____!  It was nasty cleaning up the melted bark.  Should I give it another try?  ____-__!  The second pan's balls hit the trash.  I washed everything up, pans making quite a racket from the sink to the dish drain to the cupboard.  As I left the kitchen I did mumble, "Have a nice day."

"What a waste of time, effort AND money," I  declared while stomping through the empty reception area towards the door.  Lori, taken by surprise but not really, since she knows me, said something to the effect, "We can still eat it - it'll be good."  Bless her heart.

"You're welcome to dig it out of the trash," my parting crack.  I went home, shut the door, closed the blinds and re-grouped.  I've had cooking catastrophes before - Why was I so affected this time?  After several hours it hit me:

"I know what it is!  I chose the wrong flavor," for here's my annoyance with Red Velvel cakes:

Down in Puerto Rico, 2001 or so, the Captain's mother baked and mailed him a Red Velvet Cake for his birthday; except it must have sat on the Post Office loading dock for some time, for by the time it was delivered it was a melted mess.  Still tasted good, but I could only imagine what it looked like when freshly prepared.  That's when Cap stated the following:

"My mother invented Red Velvet Cake."  Never heard of it.  "There are other recipes, but she's the one who created it, but never got the credit."  Really?

Even though I didn't know the cake, I knew Cap's penchant for twisting reality to suit his stories, just like Trump.  I didn't dare question - he was a total Momma's Boy.  I still recall Lea and Sally bursting out laughing when I told that story years later; but to me, Red Velvet Cakes have become a thorn every time I see one or even read the words.  Of course I was out of sorts.

Making Lemonade

So on Wednesday I went to the staff meeting empty handed, briefly describing my cake-pop fiasco and explaining my hands hurt from squeezing and rolling cake balls so I couldn't play the Uke.  Just as well - Bill E. couldn't make the meeting anyway.

I've since overcome my trauma, helped in part by blogging, and decided not to throw in the apron.  I will overcome this culinary challenge; I've learned what NOT to do; only next time it'll be Lemon!  (And I'll bake after-hours.)

P.S.  If you're curious, here's a piece on Red Velvet Origins.

The Spartan Way

I stared at this morning's headline about the ending of two programs providing assistance to the Deaf/Hard of Hearing. I thought of the sweet couple who sold me my teardrop: he was deaf, she wasn't, but both worked as teachers for a school for the deaf, not far from Portland.  Why would anyone cancel funding for the deaf, blind, any so-called handicap members of our society?  I thought of the Gerard Butler movie, 300; and the idea of tossing unacceptable newborns into the sea, or whatever.  I couldn't read any more.

Did I hear correctly that the new quota for picking up illegals is going from 3,000 a day to 7,000?  If they're already swiping personnel from other decimated agencies to support ICE, who'll be left to protect the rest of us?  Home-grown crazies are just as dangerous and deadly as crazies smuggled in, look at most mass killings.  It's the Under-30's who seem to be particularly nuts, so let's just round them up until they turn 40.

But 7,000?  That now pertains to anyone here illegally (as were many of my generation's grandparents) and who may have been here for, what, up to 70 years, with nary a traffic ticket?    I've asked this question before:  Who is the Government going to detain when they're finished with the dangerous dark-skinned illegals?  Are they going to go after light-skinned nationalities, or will they get a pass?  I'm biased there because of late-husband Tino's illegal status, another story; but the whole thing reeks of Hitler's idea of the Master Race. Even just a smidgen of similarity should scare the bejesus out of you.

If Joe Biden had made one fraction of the decisions Trump has since January, Republicans would be screaming for daily cognitive testing.  Why are they letting Trump do whatever he wants, acting as the spoiled child he remains?  Vindictive, he is, slandering those who won't do his bidding.  We'll all be required to take loyalty tests to acquire something-or-other currently taken for granted but which will become preferential treatment, mark my words.  Passports, for instance.  Can't travel overseas unless...  Or,  Highly preferred interest rates for loyal subjects citizens only.  I'm no longer in that market, and I hope to be overseas before the Passports change - volunteering somewhere remote.

So whaddaya think of the new FLAGPOLE installed in front of the White House?  Takes away from the nice view of the stately building, but I'm guessing it gives Trump a rise each time he looks at it, so he doesn't care.  I'm hoping the next president with good taste moves it, why not next to the Washington Monument for scale; and gets rid of the Goldoval Office.  It's not one of Trump's casinos, although I take that back.  He's used to hosting high-rollers in the dark, surrounded by tacky glitz and barely-legal incentives.

When Did I Start Failing the 'Pencil Test'?

I just tried it with an eyebrow pencil I don't use.  Wait - suck in the stomach, that oughta  help.  Nope.  Other one, too?  DAMN!  Mentally I feel around 38, but physically - everything's dropping faster than my SNAP benefits. If I live long enough there'll be nothing left but a puddle on the ground.

This is my 'Month of Mourning;' I included that phrase in this year's calendar design.  The 7th would have been my 31st wedding anniversary with #3, Tino; I like to believe we'd have lasted this long.  Tomorrow is the 3rd anniversary of BC's passing, sniff sniff.  Ex-Man #1 passed away on the 13th; Ex-Man #2 on the 27th; my dear friend Mary would have been 70 on the 21st, if she hadn't passed 26 years ago; and the 22nd's The Captain's birthday, he's still vertical.

I don't view all those occasions on the same level of grief, of course; and there are too many other sad anniversaries throughout the year.  But I told myself that if I indulge in the sniffles over things long gone, I'll relegate it to July.

From this year onward, I'll include the sad occasion when Trump's Big Beautiful Bill was signed, wasn't that on the 4th; which will financially screw me but won't go into effect until after the 2026 elections so I won't know how bad for quite some time.  They he'll REALLY let (us) have it.

I've been asked more than once,"Will the bill affect (my) SNAP or Medicaid?"  Of course it will.  But if elected officials won't do anything about it and 78 million voted for the Originator, what sense in me getting upset?  I'm not in the mood to fight City Hall.  Besides, I've learned that things generally work out better than I plan, and I'm done worrying.

I recently read something they've been warning for years:  decreased Social Security benefits.  This time it's, "In 10 years, SS will only provide 80% of your benefits."  So regardless of any formulas or theories about how I'm looking at this the wrong way, I've decided to start NOW to live on 80% of my current SS; or more precisely $950.00 a month.  That doesn't include SNAP, which is currently $185 a month but I won't count on that for much longer.  And as for Medicaid?  Who knows, after the Feds stop helping and tell the States to take care of their own.  I'm just glad I'm not terribly unhealthy; and since I'm over 64 I won't have to work 80 hrs per month.  If I'm wrong (and don't touch a cent) I'll amass over $28,000.  Which won't be worth that amount, but it's better than nothing. 

Don't you love how they're constantly deflecting from serious issues, such as solving Ukraine and Gaza, by investigating Comey and grilling Biden's doctor?  Nobody seriously believed Trump's promise to end both wars his first day; but after 6 months what progress do you see?

Trade deals promised?  That's just Donnie's wet dream of achieving the Ultimate Dealmaker title. To hell with the consequences of his flip-flopping tarriff rates: businesses failing and prices rising...he's too busy opening his Etsy store in the White House.

What about the brouhaha over revealing, once and for all, the Kennedy Assasination File and the Epstein List?  As I recall there wasn't any Ah-ha moment about Kennedy; and after Pam Bondi told us in February that she was reviewing the actual 'Epstein list', the Justice Dept now says it doesn't exist?  (I think I got that wrong - they're just not telling.)  No sense being bothered over that - MAGA supporters are peeved enough.

And don't you love them pushing this one: that our Secretary of Defense, former talk show host Pete Hegseth, decided last week to withold aid to Ukraine all by himself?  And this week Trump reversed the decision, which he claims he knew nothing about?  How can people close their eyes to all the lying they're doing to us all?

I don't want an electric car, Trump said the other day.  He apparently forgot he bought a bright red Tesla not long ago in front of the nation, after Elon brought his showroom to the White House.  And they talk about Biden.  Don't believe a word he says, but follow every order without question.  I believe the correct term is Boob. 

Instead, Fox News and Republican Congressmen focus on anything BUT.  Chasing after political and personal foes of our vindictive President. Ignore the money being made hand-over-fist by the First Family and their billionnaire buddies pushing Bitcoins - I'm still not sure what that is and I know I'm not alone; but you know it's going to come back to bite us in the como-se-llama.  Just a few years ago Trump declared Bitcoins were a scam.  Wonder what happened within the past 3 years?

I'm guessing most of Trump's supporters are not paying attention to anything other the carrot he's been dangling about lowering prices and making America great again through new manufacturing plants, I'll believe it when I see one.  But tell me, who's going to want those manufacturing jobs?  No one interested in real work.

So if (you) don't care about what happens to people like me, why should I care about what happens to you, either through natural disasters or the disaster on Pennsylvania Ave?  Have we devolved to this extent?  It's disgusting.

P.S.  I've already donated to flood victims; how 'bout you?

Bad Ideas Often Lead to Good Times

(Final leg of a recent cross-country trip.)  I was out of Iowa in no time and into Nebraska, April 17th.  This was, indeed, the same route I'd taken with BC back in 2016; and where we were caught in a hellatious hail storm which cracked my front windshield.

When I travel I don't bother with GPS, Google Maps or anything else which might alert me of possible danger, except the FM radio.   So when I heard on the radio, "Strong thunderstorms with hail possibly the size of golf balls," I pressed the pedal to the metal to get the hell through the state. This map is fuzzy, but I was right in the middle of the orange area.  

So I raced across Nebraska to North Platt, where I chose an $80 motel not far from the Interstate.  It looked nicer than the others from the outside, but I was jaded.

Lo and behold, I was pleasantly surprised the room was clean and had sheets.  I mentioned the approaching storm to the woman at the desk but she'd heard nothing; so I figured I'd gone far enough to prevent the possibility of my rental being pummeled by ice.

The Only King I Want Has a BURGER In It

Saturday's No Kings demonstration was my first, and I wasn't alone with that distinction.  Of course, we may have simply forgotten attending Vietnam protests during our youth; but if that's the case, at least we didn't lose our activism.

This protest was scheduled to meet at our town's Cultural Center, where we were politely asked not to hold up our signs on their property, but the sidewalk was fine.  They kindly allowed a small area for the Irish musicians; speakers; tables with Make-Your-Own-Sign materials; information about local events; and snacks and bottled water. 

Rosemary and I arrived quite early, so we wandered the art exhibits in the Center to kill time.   Co-worker Nellie met us there, and we procured standing spots next to the curb.  At first I thought we would be a couple dozen Seniors (and therefore dismissed as a force not to be rekoned with), but that soon changed.

By noon, the official starting time, the sidewalk was three layers deep; so organizers shepherded the 'overflow' down the sidewalk and safely across Hwy 101 to stand on the other side.  There were participants of all ages but it seemed most were over 50, I'd guess.  I saw one Palestinian and one Ukranian flag(s) which were largly ignored; not because those conflicts aren't worth consideration, but that wasn't the day's focus.

So we waved our signs with arthritic hands as people drove by, returning our enthusiasm with honking horns and lots of thumbs-up. Most of those who disagreed were at least civil and looked straight ahead while driving past; but there were others who made a point to roll down their windows, middle fingers raised, shouting profanities and telling us to Go Home - we weren't real Americans.  A few felt the need to speed close to the curb to give us a scare, which didn't work.  I just hoped no one would shove me into the street.

Cohorts in crime

A woman standing next to me was holding a good-size flagpole with a large American flag, which I feared draped dangerously into traffic.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, but your flag might become a target for some idiot to rip out of your hands as they drive by."

"I don't care, let them try.  I'm 80 years old and ready to go to jail. Not much frightens me anymore."  Gotta love her attitude.

We were advised that if there was any disruption by agitators we were to simply sit down.  And maybe sing, even if it's only "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," do kids know that song?

I managed to snap a photo of the overwhelmingly favorite protestors (l); along with the best sign, we all agreed.  The ladies in red were adorable, walking single-file up one side of the street and down the other, the tiniest slowly bringing up the rear.

Oh, my, we were a rowdy bunch, with our wheelchairs and oxygen tanks...a truly threatening mob.  In all seriousness, it was a very peaceful demonstration.  We didn't shout horrible things about the President (they were left on the signs), and the one you see here may have been the most insulting.

I've heard much worse come out of our President's mouth.  As I said in the beginning, many of us were protesting for the first time, but we all felt strongly that we had to do SOMETHING.  What's going on in Washington is not right.  We value the rule of law, unlike #47.  We don't want storm troopers in our streets.  We believe in the Constitution, and don't want a self-proclaimed 'King,' who cherry-picks military personnel to stand in the background of one of his inflamatory speeches, shouting and booing our former President.  

That's not what the military is supposed to be about.  While I didn't actually SERVE in uniform I SERVED as an Army-wife for 14 years and through osmosis learned what behavior is permissible and what is not.  That's more time than Trump ever saw:  5 deferments during the Vietnam era, the last using 'bone spurs' as an excuse.

As a Civil Servant I was protected from indescriminate terminations by a new President.  I was only trying to help put food on our table.

But don't take my word.  If you are or were in uniform, you know for yourself; and shame on you if you're denying it.

Prior to the demonstration Rosemary asked about signs, but I was still focusing on what to wear.  It was only the morning-of that the words to MY sign popped into my head, and I quickly put it together in an hour.  I thought it was pretty tame.  There were about 500 of us, the news reported, and for a small town like Lincoln City, that's quite a showing.  

So for those networks who are discounting the thousands of small towns with thousands of participants, DON'T.  Sure, particularly in large cities, there are going to be people hell-bent on violence, but that wasn't the predominant response.  Take my word on THIS one, thanks.

What Do You Wear to a Demonstration?

So I'm attending the local No Kings demonstration this Saturday and I don't have a thing to wear.  What DO you wear?  Comfy slacks or rugged jeans?  Jammies underneath?  I'd give my firstborn son if I could still manage that.  Tennnies for running or cowboy boots for kicking (anyone in the way if I'm fleeing for my life)?  Not that I can run anymore, either.

I don't have any tops with slogans other than a pink hooded sweatshirt from Sis proclaiming Jersey Girl. Will my walking stick be considered a weapon? At least I've got a Donkey brooch I picked up in Goodwill.  Well, I've got a couple days to think about it.

I'll post some pictures here, since I don't live-stream anything outside of the loo.  Hee-Haw!

The Outcome: The Only King I Want Has a BURGER In It!