Baby Shower Cake

In a weak moment, fueled no doubt by the wine, I agreed to produce a cake for an upcoming neighborhood baby shower. I decided on carrot cake with a cream cheese frosting. I was initially told that there would be upwards of 40 guests, so I thought I'd make two layers. As the numbers declined to less than 30, I decided to keep it to one layer. As it was, I baked more than enough. That's what happens when I wake up at 3:30 a.m. and start to panic. No good decisions are made at 3:30 in the morning. My oven sucks, so I'd started baking the day before in my neighbor's oven. The early morning mess centered around my oven. Hence the varying colors of the same cake. grrrr. Now to make something cute out of all this cake!

Neighbor John kindly provided a 20" square board. I covered it with blue fabric, then covered the fabric with clear acetate.

The happy parents-to-be know that the baby is a boy. After deciding that a "snakes and snails and puppy dog tails" cake was just too weird (see here), the hostess was relieved that I decided to stay on theme. I took inspiration from the invitation. The train is very cute and colorful. "I can do this!" I said to myself, kind of like the good ol' boy's famous last words, "Here hold my beer-- watch this!"

Template cutting and cake assemby took several hours. I did have a lot of cake leftover, but I was glad to have the wiggle room with all the mistakes I made. Gives "measure twice cut once" a whole new meaning.

Icing had to go on in several layers, and took another 3 hours. Crumb coat to start, then more white where the white would show. Then the blue. It's starting to take shape.

Et voila! The final product. A little rough around the edges. Note to self: carrot cake is not the best kind of cake for fancy icing. Too crumbly. But it sure was tasty, and it was a big hit at the shower.

What Little Boys Are Made Of

Next weekend is a baby shower for a neighbor around the corner. I've been tapped for cake duty. They know it's a boy, but the "snakes and snails and puppy dog tails" options seem to be limited, and truth be told, kind of macabre. This is just wrong:

If I'm going to do something in marzipan, I've got to get cracking. I've not worked with fondant before, and I don't think this is the time to start. Having said that, I'll never do it if I'm not under the gun, so this might be my big fondant debut. I've been Yahoo chatting with the shower hostess, and her preference is to stick to the theme of the invitation, which is a safe choo-choo train. She has no imagination. More details to come. . .

Cleaning Up After the Dog

This is from today's Writer's Almanac. Made me smile. I don't mean to sound self-righteous, but I don't get people who think because there's snow on the ground they don't have to clean up after their dog. Maybe they are the people who NEVER clean up after their dog and it's just more obvious on top of the snow, but what don't they get about the fact that leaving your dog's mess on the sidewalk is a bad thing?

Cleaning Up After the Dog
by Jason Tandon

Pull plastic bag from pocket
and wave it like a flag

or diploma. Make sure many people
congratulate your care
for the community.

Check bag for holes.
Double check.

Inspect stool for odd hues.
Greens, blues, blood.

Evaluate consistency.

You don't want to leave smears
on the sidewalk or grass—no prints.

Getaway must be clean.

Prepare to go in for all of it.
Hold breath.
Grab, clamp, reverse bag, twist, knot, cinch.

Smell hands.

Hold loaded bag high in the air,
assure onlookers that Everything is Okay.

If a cop should cruise by,
his crew cut bristling
in the sun,

hold that bag higher,
so he, too, can salute
your contribution.

The bomb diffused,
the world a little safer, a little cleaner,

will not offend the deep treads
of someone's shoes.

"Cleaning up after the Dog" by Jason Tandon, from Give Over the Heckler and Everyone Gets Hurt. © Black Lawrence Press, 2009.

A Thousand and One Arubian Nights

Having just dug one of two cars out of the driveway, I want a couple of Advil and a plane ticket back to Aruba. A few highlights to warm your day:

This is my favorite view. I just unpacked the last suitcase this morning. It was just my summer sandals, but seeing the sand leftover in the suitcase made me wistful.

We did manage to get into Orangestad one morning. The public bus system is great, and cheap. The city itself is something of a disappointment, at least with only a few hours to dedicate to it. It's where all the floating islands of cruise ships dock and disgorge thousands of sunburned Americans to pick over the duty-free jewelry, liquor, and tobacco. We played along, though our only shopping mission was the hats. Russ loves his Panama Jack. I'm generally not a hat person, and in the Arubian breeze you need to find one that REALLY fits, but I did like the look of this el cubano fedora. The straw didn't hold up well on the airplane ride home, but now I know what to look for. This one is made by the same company that made Indiana Jones's famous hat.

The iguanas are native, and everywhere. It can be a little off-putting to have one of these eight-pound dinosaurs cross your path, but they generally ignore the tourists.

We managed a half-day Land Rover tour of the far side of the island. It was great to leave the manicured, watered, fancy side of Aruba and see everything else. Including what our tour guide called Arubian deer. Of course they're goats. They wander freely during the day, then they all know who belongs to whom and go back to their own keepers for feeding, milking, etc., every evening. They look generally clean and healthy.

Aren't they cute? They climb on top of one another to glean whatever greenery they can reach from the local trees. There are also feral dogs around the island. Our guide called them Arubian lions. Our favorite was the one on the beach who adopted Russ.

On the grill of our Land Rover: an Arubian hood ornament. Note the licence plate. Everybody we met who lives there, native or not, agreed that it is truly "one happy island."

This is an unwelcome non-native boa constrictor. Our tour guide said somebody likely set one free and now they proliferate without any natural predators. They have wreaked havoc on the native fauna. I also heard a theory that the eggs came to the island in sand that was imported. I was very close to this bad boy. Our guide told us that the island government used to pay a bounty for dead constrictors, but that they don't anymore.


The snake was in trees just outside of caves on the windward side of the island. The caves are carved out of the coral by thousands (maybe millions) of years of hard surf and strong trade winds. There is thousand-year old indian art, and slightly newer graffiti.

Can you see the "1830" below the names? I love that these artists at least took the time to use some sense of artistry in leaving their marks. Too bad it has destroyed more of the indian artwork. Indians and sailors alike probably hid in the caves to avoid pirates.

The Arubian government had these 10 wind turbines installed, expecting them to produce about 30% of the island's electricity needs. Turns out they produce about 60%. Ten more are due to be installed. I don't have a picture here, but the land around this part of the island is very desolate. All cactus and very thorny trees that look a little like mesquite. The wind is so strong and constant, the trees grow perpendicular to the ground on this side of the island.

There used to be seven natural bridges around the island. This is one of the last. The biggest, and most famous as a tourist destination, collapsed a couple of years ago. We didn't climb down, but you can see a fisherman who did.

O.k., back to the touristy side of things. Russ really wanted to do the tube thing. I don't have a death wish like he does, but he prevailed. I made nice with the boat driver and he did take some good pictures. People looked at us funny when we finally made it back to shore. Turns out everybody on the beach could hear me screaming. My hands were frozen into claws from holding on to the hand grips so tightly, and the muscles in my arms were so traumatized I could hardly lift a beer for the rest of the afternoon. The bartender offered me a straw, but I managed to avoid that embarrassment by just tipping the beer glass toward me and leaning in. Shut up.

Sunset from our hotel balcony. Watch out for the pirates!

These finches came to visit our breakfast table every morning, but not until the last day did I manage to have the papaya juice and my camera at the right time.

We really did enjoy ourselves. For future reference, we particularly enjoyed our meals at Simply Fish (on the beach at the Marriott-- get the seafood bouillabase), The Old Cunucu House (in a 150-year old Arubian house), and Madame Jeanette's. On a sad note, we just heard that the chef at Madame Jeanette's was killed last week in a car accident. The restaurant has been closed for the near future.

Aren't you ready to go yet? I'll help with the luggage. . .

Shorts in January

Shit. Blogger in Aruba is in Dutch. I think I just posted to Channeling Bunny by mistake. So here I go again. . . Oh my god. . . it's good to put shorts on in January! Aruba is great so far. . . though too. . . I don't know. . . American. I was expecting more European, like Antigua was 25 years ago. We're on the Marriott reservation. Very, um, New Jersey. I say that, knowing that Cape May is my favorite place on Earth, but I expected something different here. Our goal is to find some good local cuisine tomorrow. This afternoon was good for scouting for snacks to stock the kitchenette, some wine, some gin, some vermouth. . . then dinner and cigar. A good cuban for the Man. Even tasted good to me, I must admit. Beautiful sunset. Will let you know what the beach looks like in the early a.m., when I'm at my best. The Man is tuning the guitar and I'm admiring the anniverary bling (pictures in a future post). Life is good.

Second Honeymoon

This is the before. Leaving tomorrow for the second honeymoon, twenty-five years later. Will post a more recent photo if we can manage to focus the camera, or at least talk somebody on the island into doing it for us. Bon chance in the next couple of weeks.

:-)

The Quiet After the Storm

I love that my son comes home for the holidays. I have two, a twelve-year old who's always home, and who loudly exclaims that he has ZERO opportunity to leave the Eastern U.S. time zone, and a 20-year old in his second year of college out west in Colorado.

The hubster and I are leaving in two weeks for a 10-day second honeymoon to the Caribbean celebrating our 25th anniversary. The 12-year old is still speechless that we aren't taking him. My bff of 15 years is coming to stay here to care for him and the 12-year old Dalmatian, Molly. Comedy ensues. Bff has a son in college too, a year ahead of mine, who wants to be a math teacher. My Troy doesn't know Joseph, but if he's HER boy, he'll be o.k. with Troy, and Troy could use some tutoring in math. I'm sure that will be the least popular activity whilst we're abroad. That said, Troy is going to be spoiled when we come back-- it's what makes me feel good about leaving him with her. We all have our different styles, but Troy will be very comfortable with her and I know she'll probably take better care of him than I do in general. For example, when my kids lost a tooth, the tooth fairy (if she remembered to visit) deposited a quarter (or if she were feeling really guilty for having forgotten on the actual night the tooth came loose, a dollar). This bff used to host the occasional sleepover for the older boys. My older son lost a tooth one night over at her place. Instead of just deposting a coin after collecting the tooth, at her house the tooth fairy actually left behind footprints in baby powder left in a path from the window sill to the bed, and wrapped the coins (yes, plural coins) in ribbon, and made a special breakfast so that every lost tooth was not only memorable, the remaining ones were in peril of the dentist's tools.

As for tonight, the boys ordered pizza, and I've got a greek salad with grilled chicken on the way. Seventeen-year old C'mon Baby truck is home ($1,400 later) with a new gas tank and fuel lines, and I've just had a conversation with Zack (college boy). He told me the stacks of CDs (more than 200 all over the living room) he had to reload on his laptop are in alpha order. After we had a good laugh over that one, we went through all the other things he's left behind, messes and otherwise, necessitating another box to be shipped out west. It might be my imagination, but I think he's getting it. What I really mean is, he might just be learning how to say, you're absolutely right, I'm so sorry, I'll do better next time, blah, blah, blah. . . Pretty simple, right? But I would rather he said that now, but next time picked up after himself. Hey, I can dream. . .

Now it's more homework for the middle-schooler. When's the bloody dinner coming??