This Reminds Me

Archive for April, 2007

When Hurricane Alicia was bearing down in 1983, we Houstonians knew to stock up on the essentials.  Batteries.  Water.  And for me - a box of Twinkies.  I stashed the box in my bedroom closet (no exterior walls or windows), ready to jump in, slam the door and enjoy my last living moments seeking solace in that oh-so-creamy filling.  To ensure my diet was balanced (soft vs. hard), I also had a box of Cap’n Crunch at the ready.

I know as adults, we are supposed to loathe Twinkies.   Glare at them placed near the check-out with a curled lip of total disdain.  If they’re served near us, we’re supposed to drone on about “sodium stearol lactylate” and “calcium sulpphate.”  We never buy them, of course, because they’re bad for us.  And for our children.  And some Twinkies are still “fresh” after decades on lab shelves.

But I love them.  Still.

My friend Karen – who shares this secret sin with me – gifted our family a Hostess bake set, complete with Twinkie-shaped mold.   Hannah and I decided today was the day to exercise our extraordinary culinary skills.

The golden sponge cake recipe was supposed to “Yield: 24 mini-cakes.”  We got eight out of it – the number of cake molds in the pan.  We could have scraped out nine if we hadn’t “sampled” quite so much.  Two of the cakes had severe emotional problems and simply…ummm….went to pieces.  There are also recipes in the booklet for Devil’s Food Cake and Strawberry Spice Cake, which would, of course, be blasphemies.

Note the Vanilla Fluff splattered on Hannah’s wrist and arm.  “Mom, I’m having fluff blow-out.”  Butter, powdered sugar, heavy cream and marshmallow fluff – what’s not to like?!  There’s another recipe for Peanut Butter Filling that I could spread directly on my hips.

The end result:  Three regular filled Twinkies, and three Twinkies both filled and topped.  See mine – “MOM”?  Of course, Rachel came home from a youth event and promptly ate that one.  There’s a little dipping fluff on the side for some extra whitey goodness.

I know carnival vendors are frying Twinkies now.  That’s just wrong.  And forget recipes like the disturbing Hostess Twinkies Sushi. That’s enough to give nightmares.  And personal “fluff blow-out,” too, I suspect.

No, I’ll stick with a tiny bite out of the end of that heavenly golden sponge cake.   Pursed lips seeking that creamy goodness before taking the first melt-in-your-mouth chomp.  Rapid chewing, followed by fingers run down sides of clothes.  And then that slightly greasy film on your teeth that can be enjoyed until your next brushing.

Okay, so this is a sin best kept in the closet, with or without a hurricane approaching.

But you gotta admit – It’s all good.

It’s been a Sunday of twos.

Two quotes in the car on the way to church:

Lois, commenting on the parable of the Good Samaritan:  “Yeah, so, today’s Samaritan would look at the guy and say, ‘How much is in his pockets?’”

Also Lois, commenting on Keith’s wanting to find a particular tool to work on the deck this afternoon:  “You could also pull those nails with your teeth, Dad.”

Lois – a.k.a., Daughter #2, performing “My Jesus” with the teen worship team.  ‘Twas beautimous.

These two goofs battled Guitar Hero all afternoon, then took the guitars and PS2 game to the youth area for evening class.  Something tells me they weren’t plucking “Softly and Tenderly.”

Julia has learned to love to play hide’n'seek with the neighbor girls, and her sisters.  One of them hides her eyes and counts aloud, while the others hurriedly scatter to shaded, obscure corners of the house and yard, hoping not to be found first.  Giggling.  Breathing silently for fear of discovery.

No peeking!

It’s fun to try to be invisible when you know that people who love you really do see you – for who you were, who you are and who you can become.

Rachel has joined Reagan High School’s Global Awareness club, “…to make a difference in our school and in our world by helping others.”  One of their chosen missions is to raise awareness of the Invisible Children - roaming orphans of war-torn Uganda who face too-short lives of starvation, disease and abuse.   Rachel has ordered a bracelet to wear as a daily reminder of their plight.  As they hide from tormentors.  Grimly.  Breathing silently for fear of discovery.

Keith and I had pretty much the same reaction:  Ummmm…yeah.  So, you’re 15 and you think a bracelet worn in San Antonio is going to help an orphan in Africa.  Well, all rightttty.  Then she asked permission to accompany a group to Austin on April 28 to spend the night on the street(!) with a throng of fellow granola-eaters, lamenting the state of these unfortunate children.  This time, our reaction was identical:  Ummmmm…..no.  That answer would be a unchangable “no.”

So, she attends monthly club meetings, and comes home infused with passion.  And a few probing questions.  “Mom, I’ve told you about these children.  Don’t you care?”

Don’t I?

I had to think about that answer.

I finally told her that as a Christian and a human being – yes, I did care.  But as a realist, I recognized that until their government changed, there was really nothing I could do.  We could sell our house – cash in our savings plan - liquidate every blessed thing we owned and send the money to an organization in Uganda – and as long as their corrupt and unstable government was in power, our sacrifice would be of no benefit.  It would never reach those kids.

I explained that what Keith and I preferred to do was to give to organizations we knew could make a difference.  When, for example, we “auctioned” Julia’s first piece of art work, we were 100% confident Buckner would use those funds directly for orphan care.

Such a rational “compassionate conservative” answer.  A real grown-up answer.

But you see….spread your fingers and peek just a little bit and you will see…..there’s a shard of idealism left in me, too, whose flame continues to sputter despite the windy realities of repeated disappointment and occassional despair.  Most of the time, it lies dormant.  Oh soooo quietly.  Pensively.  Breathing silently for fear of discovery.  Because if I acknowledged it was there – or if anyone found it – it might leap out.  It might cause me to do more than simply read about children like these.

Take a peek.

Because unlike Ugandan orphans – we met orphans like these.   We smelled their food, watched their dances and heard their songs.  They are not invisible, because we see them in the face of our youngest child.

I’ve blogged before about trying to balance reality with idealism. After I posted, a dear friend whose opinion I much respect told me I was, “... not (to try to) be Mother Earth, Mother Hubbard, or Mother Superior to every child who has gotten the short end of the stick “

And he’s absolutely right, of course, because to try to do so would short-change the four girls we have now.

Rachel, however, has no such responsibility or obligation.  She’s 15, and brimming with passion about how the world should work.

I can’t share her commitment to the plight of the Ugandan orphans, other than intellectually.  I pretty much agree with Keith, who describes it all as “a waste of time,” and with my niece Sarah, who asked Rachel with all sincerity, “You know this is all a bunch of hooey, don’t you?”

I can’t let her spend the night on some grimy Austin street with a bunch of tree-huggers singing “Kumbaya.”  I’m not buying a support bracelet myself, nor enduring a video presentation while our laundry piles up and homework waits.

But deep down – I admire her commitment and enthusiasm.  The fact she cares about something big – really big and really human -  makes me smile.  But I’m an adult, of course, with a no-nonsense, grown-up view of the world.  So I stifle that smile.  I have to keep my admiration down low.  Living quietly.  Breathing silently for fear of discovery.