Tag Archives: cake

Of Fiefs and Serfs

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The Middle Ages.  There was a time when those words triggered thoughts of war, religion, filth, poor hygiene…special focus on the hygiene bit.  The Middle Ages now are all about timely dental cleanings, squinting at books and pretending not to, constantly resetting online passwords, and long grey hairs that cannot in any reasonable way be considered “that random blond strand.”

I came out of the womb with an eighty-year old personality, so I didn’t despair too often about changes that might come with time.  My kindergarten days were spent hoarding moist towelettes and agonizing about using restrooms outside my home.  I can’t think of better examples of geriatric behavior.

My twenties however were noticeably fraught with angst on birthdays, with the typical first-world young person crap.  Will I ever have a job beyond quality control of photocopies?  Why did my last date want to split the bill? Am I not worth the price of a Caliente Cab Company burrito?  And of course, should I stay home Friday night with the fine pimple on my chin?

And now this middle period of history has arrived, marked by a general attitude of not giving a rat’s ass.   No, I will not join the office March Madness pool anymore.  I don’t really mind which Carolina wins what.  People: will you just let me work?

I’ll say it out loud: I don’t like sloppy yoga pants at brunch – sue me.  Or don’t.  I don’t care.

And guess what?  It turns out I really like eating cake in bed, crumb cleanup be darned.  What about the brushing of teeth, you ask?  See above on rat’s behind – that’s what regular dental cleanings are for.  The Middle Ages are indeed marked by dubious hygiene.

Maturing Youth – Epilogue

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Well, at our age, we often say,

As we start one more activity in the busy day.

Be it grocery shopping, or cell phone talking,

Or hatha yoga or charity auction hawking.

We start to think of our furrowed brows,

And our new daily mantra: peace right now;

Of our blossoming love for herbal tea,

Or beach trips that are just about watching the sea.

It’s suddenly clear, just how much we have shifted,

Towards the finish line of the lives we were gifted.

Snowflakes, crackling fire, fat book, old dog.

Today, this is what I call living high on the hog.

And when nostalgia suddenly seems to appear,

For velvet ropes, thumping bass, permanent high gear,

I rise and sprint in my orthopedic mules

To the nearby pantry, which has all the right tools.

A beloved blue teacup, bought when money was dear.

Add sugar, cocoa, flour, and maybe a single tear.

For we have reached the time when youth can’t be faked,

But oh bliss, oh joy, we can always have mug cake.

 

Blessings, Grandmother.

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Step aside, Fraulein Maria.  Brown paper packages tied up with string are excellent, but there are other things that take the cake.  Including, well, cake.  My list of favorite things also includes feelings, events, political treatises, and it can change with a turn of the wind.  In light of the holiday season kickoff, here is what’s currently on offer:

A freshly cleaned litter box, and the cat’s agreement to finally use it…two days later.

A Korean market with a plethora of guavas and cactus pear – even if I first had to get fully naked in the baths next door, with my friends, to discover it.

Friends who remain your friends, even after you have been fully naked together at Korean baths.

Sniffing my t-shirt collar multiple times, with the joyful discovery the rancid smell during Boot Camp is someone else.

Remembering to eat potato chips out of a bowl, not mindlessly reaching into a bag, and then foolishly setting the bag next to the bowl.

Stopping the living room scuffle between the pets before the cat ate the dog.

My new lip liner!  And yes, it leaves me looking exactly as I did before I put it on.

Thanksgiving dinners that allow dogs, even when one of them christens the brand-new kitchen with some pee.

The jewel box keepsakes given to each of us on her eightieth birthday, with her simple handwritten wish: “Blessings, Grandmother.”

The knowledge that I may not live until eighty, but I will have enjoyed a lot of pie.

This is 29

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A delicate rose scent wafts through the air.  It dances with the soothing talcum powder smell of little babies.  Spring is wonderful.  Less so is my jog – where I am more enthralled by the fragrances of my shampoo and deodorant, than by the prospect of speeding up.  After a certain age, exercise is not just beneficial, but mandatory – unless you are happy about consistent and unforgiving weight gain.

If creeping pounds are unappealing, and you hate to move about, then eating sensibly is also an option.  I’m not referring to fasting, pureeing bacon sandwiches, or juicing a pineapple with some kerosene, but a reasonable approach to nutrition.  Like eating foods that come naturally in different colors (not tinted in an agricultural salon), in small portions, throughout the day.  Easy and practical.  Until you realize cake is not one of the recommended colors.

So for me, it’s back to sweating.  Each morning, I pry open my eyelids, turn my stiff head to the left and assess the state of the union.  Sufficient light to prevent mugging.  Not enough to necessitate sunblock.  Swaying leaves mean a long-sleeve shirt.   Or maybe pants.  I never get that decision right.  When I feel an agitated ankle tendon I sit up.  Maybe it’s a hamstring; I am not sure I know the difference.  I do know I have to find that disgusting absorbent hairband, as today is not a hair-washing day.

I start to meticulously measure out the water, level out the scoops of finely ground Puerto Rican beans, and warm up the four precise ounces of milk; as the coffee starts to bubble, I reminisce about the morning routines of my youth.  Sleeping in past the last possible minute and then heading into an inappropriately long shower; avoiding clothing dilemmas, by choosing black sweaters over black pants, with black shoes – all to the soundtrack of Ace of Base, which I somehow find the time to insert into the CD player.  Walking two feet out of my apartment directly into an Au Bon Pain/Urban Pain for a large mocha blast, whipped cream please, and a side of whichever muffin looks the largest.  That’s easing into a day.

But life is better now.  Really.  My cholesterol is low.  My heart rate compares to a professional athlete’s, according to my Emergency room visit doctor. I can shamelessly wear a halter top (if I weren’t mortified at the thought).  And I do sleep in until 8 on Sundays.  This is 29, again.