How Stella Got Her Mixing Bowl Back

When I was in 2nd grade, my music teacher took notice of my Fierce Lesbian Fingers ™ and told me that I might be a decent piano player if I took lessons. He started teaching me which keys played which notes, and explained the clefs to me. After a little while, he told me it was probably time to ask my mother to teach me more at home.

I came home from school that day and told my mother that my music teacher said I was born to play piano (which he did) and that he thought I should take lessons. My mother said, "You want to learn to play piano? Here -- play this." She handed me the sheet music for the theme to The Incredible Hulk circa 197something, and opened the piano for me. 

We actually had two pianos in our house for a while, and before you go thinking ooooo-la-laaaa, let me point out that both of them were ancient, out of tune, non-functioning player pianos handed down to us by our congregation, because white people give weird shit to the poor.

One year later, I could play the theme to The Incredible Hulk, and just about anything else I wanted to play. Watching me play piano was cringe-worthy, to be generous. My fingers were in all the wrong positions, I twisted my wrists around like I was playing drunk stripper Twister, but it sounded magnificent. I taught my little brother and sister how to play, too. We's each sit at a piano and play off of each other (add overpriced, under-poured martinis and we would have invented piano bars) (I also invented pore strips around this age) (true story). It was wonderful, and I loved every minute of it. I used it as an escape -- no one bothered me when I played, my mother was kind to me while I was playing, and even forgot herself enough to pass me the errant compliment when i got through a particularly challenging piece. I played almost day, and got, while not Julliard good, pretty damn hood-good. 

And then I moved to Colorado on January 9th, 1992, and never saw my mother, those pianos, or that house again. And I haven't been able to play the piano since. 

I can't explain it, I just lost the ability to do it. It doesn't work. I can barely muddle my way through the first of Dr Bruce Banner's sad, lonely steps into the unknown future before my fingers stutter and trip over themselves and my brain remembers, 'Hey wait. WE AREN'T DOING THIS ANYMORE'.

It's no one's fault; it just happened. And it happened again a whole lot of years later, but this time it was with baking. 

I used to bake a lot. Like, a lot-lot. I've been a hobbyist cook for many years, but one day I just woke up one day and thought, "Hmm, I'd like to make a Yule Log for my in-laws for Christmas." And in three days, and a whole lot of homemade buttercream later, I did. And there was much rejoicing. 

I baked avidly for years, and then one day it just stopped. I kind of stopped cooking, too, but when things got really gong show crazy with Soon-To-Be-Ex's drinking, I just lost the will to bake. It was no one's fault, really, I just didn't want to anymore, and when I tried it flopped, and that made me want to less, and so it goes. 

But I kind of felt the twinge come back this summer, while I was in California for seven weeks working and staying with baby god-daddy & co. I think I started to remember who I was during those weeks I was gone. That's one of the hardest parts of being the enabler in a co-dependent relationship -- we take on so much of the other person's shit that we don't have room for any of our own stuff. This is no one's fault but our own, and it's a hard habit to break. 

Seven weeks a few thousand miles away from one's co-dependent isn't the worst way to start breaking that habit. 

While I was at baby god-daddy's house, his wife and I talked a lot about what she bakes (the baked goods of the Gods, in case you were wondering where to find them) and what I used to bake, and you know, I kind of started getting the itch again. She'd bake cookies and we'd think up fun ideas for ice creams to go with them. We'd eat her favourite cupcakes and we'd talk about what other kinds of buttercreams would go with the cakes. I'd watch her mixing batters and I'd start missing the smell of flour. 

So I came home and started baking again. Turns out, I still gotz it. In fact, I gotz it, plus. These? Are cookies. I made them, and they aren't dead. 

Cookies are my life-long foe. I have never successfully baked a cookie, until now. Now I spend my nights dreaming up new variations on these little masterpieces. My kids are telling their new friends that their mom bakes the best cookies on Earth. I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING. I am going to have to order new business cards now, because it seems I am no longer a cookie assassin. 

I don't even know what this means for my future, but I do know that it's probably time to start posting weekly recipes again. It's been, what, years since I did that last? Yeah, we're bringing sexy back. 

Those cookies up there are Oatmeal Coffee cookies on the left, and cherry pistachio cookies in the middle. The cherry pistachio ones still need some tweaking, but I've got the oatmeal toffee ones down to a science. The recipe is based off this one from Hershey's website. Someone in my Houston Al-Anon group gave me that recipe, and I have been messing around with it for a few weeks. Here's how I altered it:

  • Use 1 cup less oats than recommended (so 2 cups total)
  • Use a little less sugar than they call for (so, like, 1 1/2 cups brown sugar - you'll have to find your comfortable sweetness level. I was going for less-sweet entirely)
  • Mix the wet ingredients and refrigerate the mixture overnight, then soften it slightly the next day, and finish the recipe
  • For sure use the coconut, since you're using less oats
  • Add 1/2 nuts. I used slivered almonds that I then chopped a little, so they'd be about the same size as the oats. 
  • Use PLAIN toffee bits, not the chocolate coated ones. They're harder to find. They are also worth it.

 

She Runs Guns

I am really very good at not talking about things. This is a grossly counterproductive character trait for a blogger. 

Everything and nothing is happening with my husband and until I get to the place where I have even a singular answer, I don't know how to talk about any of it. Besides, he'll read this. He read everything the last time this happened and that instigated an international war.

I am mindful of the mines in my path.

And so I'm doing anything else but dealing with all of this inside of myself. Part of that is good: it's detaching, it's letting go, it's acknowledging that my life can and will continue even if his has come to a screeching hault. Part of that is not good, however: it's denying, it's avoiding, it's getting all worked up over bacon and cupcakes because I can't let myself get all worked up about this. 

Yes, I spent 500 words and countless hours over at my foodish blog on Babble defending my utter disdain for the common cupcake, and then I'm not even going to tell you how many nights I dumped into researching every single way the world at large has wronged us through bacon

Did you know that there is bacon flavoured personal lubricant? This is actually a thing, people.

I also got the hell out of Dodge for a minute, which was way more helpful than I ever thought it could be. I am, by nature, a runner. I run away from that which hurts me, and so far, it's a trait that has served me decently well in life. I ran from my mother 20 years ago, I ran from my husband five years ago, and I run away from every single person whom I love and cannot be with. (Ask my best friend Molly sometime. She'll tell you all about my ability to disappear in plain sight.)

It's a crappy coping mechanism, but it's mine. I let time handle the impossible business of healing what is otherwise incurable, and I convince myself the scars that will never heal, have. 

But it was pointed out to me a few weeks ago by someone much smarter than I am that I have started running towards my life, rather than away from it, and those words have sat right here on my shoulder, whispering into my ear, where my Abandonment Issue Angel used to sit telling me to just gogogogo

So I went to Blissdom, which at first glance seemed to me like I was running away from my problems but, I realized after, was me running towards the people I'm going to need to help me deal with them moving forward. 

I was terrified to leave home for three days with him being 3 1/2 weeks dry, because if I did, I would be relinquishing control of what could happen in my absence. I almost did stay home, in fact, but that Towards on my shoulder kept telling me to get a move on, already...and so I went. 

And everything was fine. I had unapologetic fun. I went to bed at 9:30pm my first night there because I have forgotten how to sleep these past four weeks. I went to bed at 2:30am my last night there because I had forgotten how to get silly drunk with my friends on stairs these past five years. 

And I talked. I talked to a lot of people about the things that I am not ready to talk about here, and it helped. I always forget how many people are willing to help you run your guns, if you only ask. I came back feeling a little bit lighter, a little bit more able to do the next thing that I have to do.

Even if I don't know what that is, exactly, just yet.