Super heroes appear to be an entertainment gold mine right now, so, in keeping with the trend, I’ve decided to create my own alter-ego super hero. She shall be named RED FURY. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned or my readers have surmised but I am a naturally born redhead with pale skin and brown eyes.

My genetic make requires a mutant MC1R gene that sits on chromosome 16. Yes, I said mutant gene. The gene for red hair is recessive, so a person needs two copies of that gene for it to show up or be expressed. That means even if both parents carry the gene, just one in four of their children are likely to turn out to be a redhead. Therefore I am only one to two percent of the world wide population making me quite rare. Plus, I’m an only child, so what are the odds? I really think that deserves a super hero and thus Red Fury was born.

In a previous blog I wrote how this moniker would become my preferred name. That was just me making light of the preferred name trend. But, as I thought about it, Red Fury really did fit me like a glove. I am a redhead and occasionally I do burst into a fury, whether it be a fury of cleaning, baking, shopping and/or orating loudly about whatever news item has caught my sense of the absurd. Yes, Red Fury about sums me up.

The Muse thinks this needs to be made into a graphic novel. He says he can even see the front cover in his mind. Hum ….. let’s see what I can come up with.

First comes the question of how to portray her. Should she be in her twenties, all svelte and smooth with long flowing scarlet hair welding her bejeweled dagger of peace and justice? Or would it be more accurate to paint her as a chubby, flamed-haired magical mess of a creature sporting an extra large bustier and swinging a sharply honed sword that can double as a bread knife?

The muse’s opinion is to go with the twenty year old young. Of course it is. As he mentioned to me once, he still has the mind of a twelve year old. But, really, the full figured gal more currently describes my alter ego. Maybe I will write about both. They can exist in different parallel universes; one based on reality and the other based on the Muse’s dream.

So, for now, the Red Fury bids you adieu. Don’t worry, there will be more installments as I flesh out her exploits, thoughts and goals. See you in the next blog.

(Hang on, I’m going on a small rant.)

I read an article today reporting how the coal producing energy business was going to be phased out of the great Northwest within five years. No more coal energy will be available to power our homes, businesses, government, etc. This was encouraged in part by the eco-activists and the governing factors of the NW states.

It was a highly informative article as it described coal energy as an uninterrupted, always ready energy source. Basically when you flick on your lights, your lights will always come on. Natural gas is also a reliable source. Unlike wind, solar and batteries.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I agree coal is dirty. But, how can you phase this out in five years and yet have no where near the reliability from any other source to put in place? As stated in the article, the people at the top of the industry truly have no idea how this will play out in five years. Will we have blackouts, will we only be able to run appliances at certain times of the day, will we have lights at all? THEY DON’T KNOW.

You know who also doesn’t know? The general public. In discussing this subject with friends and colleagues I have come to the conclusion the general public has no clue about what is coming. Why?

1. The news conglomerations have a decidedly one sided point of view and will not report on anything that does not fall in line with that.

2. People are too busy to delve into alternate news sources to find these things out.

3. People in general don’t care about tomorrow, only about today. Oh, I take that back. Some special interest groups care very much about their version of tomorrow. That’s how we’ve gotten in this mess in the first place.

But what I really want to write about is the problem of “sheepelness.” No, not sleepiness, although that somehow applies to the problem. I refer to people who form their opinions by listening to family members, friends, colleagues, celebrities, one sided news sources, (either side of the political spectrum), and people they meet on the street. These folks are not interested in studying the issue from both sides, researching other opinions and facts and/or having any meaningful conversations with people who differ from themselves.

Did our educational system somehow miss teaching critical thinking? Was thinking for oneself over looked? How are we now a society who votes with no knowledge of the nuances of the candidate and/or issue. The news media or a celebrity says to vote for a person and that’s good enough for us. Never mind that the politics of said person is of questionable origins. Never mind that the politics will lead us into undefined waters. Never mind that we may not be able to turn on our lights in five years.

Is it really possible that the only things that matter to the American public are their cell phones, Amazon Prime and Yahoo news? What a state we are in. How are we to teach our young to think outside the box when all we have given them are the principles of “If you don’t agree with the loudest voices, you are wrong.” The loudest voices are not usually the majority, they are just the loudest.

I can’t imagine this country in the next few years but I’m very afraid I will be around to see it. We are going the way of all great ideas that through corruption, conniving and hubris faded into history only to be read about in old, dusty history books.

Okay, rant over. Now I’m just sad.

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING 101

Last night I motored on over to Target for a little Christmas shopping. It was a dark and rainy night and the parking lot was packed. I therefore had to park a ways out. As I flung myself out of the car, I gripped my purse, put my head down and endeavored to miss as many raindrops as I could. (This is an important little fact you will understand later in the blog.)

I was there because I was looking for little, whimsical items to give to my work peeps. I zigged and zagged my way through the crowds, making quick decisions and basically throwing whatever struck my fancy into the cart. A few bath bombs, hair clips, face masks, a bicycle bell for our mail lady’s cart and a long sleeved t-shirt for me because I never seem to leave Target without a piece of clothing in my basket. Candy and a few Christmas tree decorations rounded out my choices. It was time to hit the check out.

Target lanes were packed but just at that moment a clerk came to open up a new cash register. I spotted this with my eagle eye and turned to take advantage of the situation. But not before a woman who was closer scooted over and got there first. I really didn’t mind as being second in a line is far better than being the 10^th. I happily took my place and waited for what I thought would be a short interaction. She only had two items, for pity sakes. Two ugly Christmas sweaters. This should have been a quick exchange of sweaters for money. One would think. But, of course it was not.

The first sweater scanned with no problem. The second one hit a snag. She had picked it up in the men’s section where there was a sign it was 20% off. But it didn’t ring up that way. It rang up as being a children’s sweater with no discount. Now, you know what transpired. She asked the checker, who appeared new, young and ill equipped to handle this, to check again. And again. And again. It never rang up as anything different. I wanted to cry, “Stop the insanity,” but remained silent, ever patient, starting to wonder if I made the right decision with this lane.

It was then the customer asked for a manager and all my hopes of an easy, short line fled. I knew at that moment I would be here forever, trying to hold up my Christmas cheer while watching the minutes tick by. Behind me a woman came up with one item in her cart. I leaned over and said softly, “You might want to try another lane as this is going to take a while.”

The manager finally appeared, gave the okay for the discount, the clerk rang it up and it was a Christmas miracle. The shopper saved two dollars. If I had known that, I would have given her the money. She happily exited the store with her two ugly Christmas sweaters in a bag. And this only took twenty minutes to complete.

I approached the checker with my purchases, paid and went to get in my car. Except I couldn’t find my car. Now, I am going to be honest and tell you this is not the first time this has happened to me. I become distracted when parking and in a hurry and don’t always mentally mark my parking space. And so it was last night. I rushed out into the cold, rainy, dark night and realized I had no idea which lane I was in. I proceeded to trudge up and down every lane, punching my key fob hoping I would see the tail lights of my car come alive. But alas, to no avail.

As this has happened to me many times before my first thought is, “Somebody stole my car.” That is never the case and it wasn’t the case last night. On my second go around of the parking lot, in the distance I saw two red lights blinking in my general direction. I really had no idea I parked so far out. By this time I was cold, wet and laden with bags so I hopped in the car, flung my packages in the back seat and drove home.

Here’s hoping the next go around of Christmas shopping goes smoother. But, really, what are the chances?

One would think by this title I was going to write a children’s tale, or perhaps a fable via the style of Aesop. But one would be wrong. What ensues is an attempt to explain, if only to myself, my penchant for what the husband calls “flitting.” The dictionary describes this word as moving swiftly and lightly. That pretty much sums me up.

I have a habit, annoying to some, fascinating to others, of moving from one point of interest to another all in one stroke. I embrace the quest for knowledge in a haphazard manner, leaving much to chance and all to whimsy. Let me explain.

At one time I thought I might have adult ADD. But I can concentrate on one thing to the finish and beyond. I can study hard and retain, read a book from cover to cover in one very long sitting, practice a piece on the keyboard until my fingers ache. So, I don’t think that would be an accurate diagnosis.

I tend to soak up bits and pieces of information like a sponge, wanting to participate, learn and grasp them in the moment. That moment might last a minute, a day or a life time. Take for instance last night. The husband and I watched a documentary on 60’s music called, “Echoes from the Canyon.” How Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles was a mecca for music artists of the mid to late 60’s. Groups like The Mama’s and the Papa’s; The Byrds, The Beach Boys; Buffalo Springfield and others that made the sound that defined a generation. I was so into this I promised myself I would buy the “Pet Sounds” album by The Beach Boys. Which reminds me I need to order an Ethel Waters album cause I love that 1920’s blues she sings.

See, I skip from genre to generation to century, all in a beat of the heart. This occasionally drives the husband nuts as he can’t quite keep up. But I can’t help it. As information comes across my brain I become fascinated and want to steep myself in whatever I’ve just seen, heard or experienced.

I have tried many different crafts in my day, although not finishing them is another blog entry all together. My attention tends to drift off when another, more interesting craft pops up. Music genres also flit through my life with sheet music from madrigals, to sonatas to jazz to hymns to show tunes residing in my piano bench.

Like a sponge I absorb many things I experience but like a squirrel I move from one thing to another in rapid succession, sometimes not landing on any one thing to complete an investigation.

And like a squirrel I sometimes can’t remember where I’ve stored my “nuts.” We have lived in our house for thirty-five plus years and I am continually surprised at what I find stashed away in a draw or attic closet. Projects I started decades ago and surely stored with the intent of finishing but never did. Like the three foot stuffed moose I was going to make for who knows what reason. Only finished the head. Perhaps I should mount that on the wall, but that somehow seems both wrong and sad. Or the partially finished knitting stuffed in a box with about fifty skeins of yarn. Or the laminator I bought to preserve my grandmother’s hand crafted cook book before it falls apart. I tell myself I will accomplish these things come winter. And yet come the cold months I start on a mosaic project or better yet home made Christmas gifts. And so it comes around that my attic is a treasure trove of half finished projects of the last thirty years.

Will I ever finish these items? Perhaps. Will I ever leave my squirrel alter ego behind? Probably not. Will I continue to soak up information like a sponge and never get tired of learning new things? Most definitely yes. There is so much to learn and explore and become aware of. New adventures to try, new songs to learn and new words to explore. Flitting at it’s best is joyous and at it’s worst drives people nuts. But better them than me.

If you haven’t read the previous post regarding my need to bake, please do so as it will explain so much about my thought process. Now, onto bread day.

Feeling cocky after my Apricot Frangipane Tart and it’s grand conclusion, I decided my next adventure would be bread. But not just plain old white bread. Oh no, that would have been too easy. With my newly found confidence I decided on a Cherry Chocolate 2 plaited loaf. Because who wouldn’t want to start out with a dough that was loaded with whole cherries, white and dark chocolate chips and then braided and baked.

Just in case you need a little clarification, the Brits apparently call braiding plaiting and thus the title 2 plaited bread. More on this later, because you need time to understand the disaster that ensued.

The husband started out in the kitchen with me, under requests to keep his comments and helpful (?) advice to a minimum. Out came the all important Kitchen Aide mixer. The flour, butter, oil, salt and yeast went in the bowl, I started to add the water very slowly and the mixture went round and round. The written recipe told me I needed to turn this lump out onto a floured board and knead for four to seven minutes. I looked in the bowl and the lump I observed was not the rounded, smooth dough I expected but a wet, gloppy mass of goo. But, on I went, confident that the kneading process would straighten it all out.

In keeping with the great bakers on TV, I slung that flour on the kitchen counter top and ended up in a cloud of white covering my entire body and going up my nose. Alright, maybe not that much flour. Out came the dough and I commenced kneading it. And kneading it, and kneading it. I went the entire seven minutes. Why? I wanted to become one with the dough. I wanted to feel it silkiness start to form as the gluten expanded and became soft. At least that’s what I told the husband. As I physically put my heart and soul into this, the goo ball was not performing well. I added some flour, per instructions. I added more flour and more flour. By the time I got that ball looking like bread dough I had added in a little over a cup and a half of flour. Something was not right.

I think I need to go back a little to the beginning. I printed out the exact recipe and on my first viewing I noticed the measurements were in grams and milliliters. I never caught onto the metric way of math, so with the help of the husband, (who was chemistry major/math minor in college) and the internet I converted these strange measurements to something an American could understand. The problem came when the metric way did not exactly translate to the American way and thus the problem with the dough. Oh, you can get close going from grams to cups but as the amounts increase the difference becomes notable. Upon reflection I realized the problem with my dough. I had way too much water and not enough flour. Now I had dough that was a bit of a mystery as to it’s composition. I finally got enough flour in it but was there then enough salt, yeast and oil? Not wanting to waste the cherries and chocolate, (because one should never, ever waste chocolate), on a loaf clearly not to specifications, I decided to bake it in a conventional bread pan and hope for the best.

So, I started my quest  againmeasuring out the ingredients in the proper grams. I have to admit this is more accurate. Fortunately I have a scale that can go from ounces to grams with the flick of a switch and measuring cups that have both ounces and milliliters. This will be my chosen way to bake from now on, especially since I appear to have an affinity to the British Baking Show recipes.

Round and round the mixer went and what it produced was a soft, pliable dough ready for kneading. And knead I did, even asking the husband to re-enter the kitchen to view my wonderful technique. Why, because I apparently viewed this as a spectator sport and really wanted an audience. He complied and chose to remain fairly silent with an occasional cheering on in response to my hand action.

At this point I was ready to add in the drained cherries, white chocolate chips and espresso chocolate chips. (Yes, that’s a new thing I found in the baking aisle at Safeway.) I flattened my dough into a rectangle and poured in the goodies and started to incorporate everything into one amazing mixture. I folded the dough around these bits and pieces trying to corral them into one. And as I nipped and tucked cherries and chocolate pieces were flying in every direction possible trying to escape their eventual home.

I had to stop quite often to gather up these wayward bits and bring them back into the fold. In the end I was probably missing a few cherries and about a quarter cup of the chips and in true Magical Mess mode, felt this was quite enough. I would worry about the missing soldiers later when I cleaned up.

Don’t ask my why but I felt the need to consult the British Baking Show segment that showed how to do this. (Does closing the barn door after the horse is out sound familiar?) And what to my surprise do I find? The creator of the recipe, a Mr. Paul Hollywood whom I have become quite acquainted with as he is the top baker on the show, does everything, (and I mean everything, mixing, kneeding, incorporating the goodies), in his mixer. Never have I seen him do this with any other bread. With him it’s always, “Get in the dough with your hands, feel the dough, love the dough. It’s the only way you can control the kneed.” Oh, sure Paul, except for this one loaf where you cheated on me and used, dare I say, a dough hook attached to an electrical device. No hands involved on this one, Paul. I haven’t felt this betrayed in over forty-two years when my old, old boyfriend told me I wasn’t good enough and went out with someone else. (Keep in mind I’ve been married to the husband for almost thirty-nine years so haven’t felt this emotion in an age.)

But I’ve drifted from my story. Now it was time to plait, or braid for you Americans. I split that dough in half and proceeded to roll it out into two equal round long pieces. I ‘ve never braided just two pieces of anything so decided to bring up Mr. Hollywood’s technique on You Tube on my phone. The only trouble was the perspective I was viewing it from. The camera was straight on Paul plaiting.  I was looking at my dough from a baker’s perspective and couldn’t figure out how to reverse myself. I tried and tried to flip those braids in tune with him but more than once had to start over. I was so obsessed with doing it Paul’s way that never did it occur to me to reference a different You Tube selection that showed it from the baker’s point of view.

I finally threw in the towel, literally at one point, and did a jumble of a job plaiting that dough together. It resembled a mass of plaits, trying to form a structured union but failing miserably. Time to proof one more time and then bake. And that’s what I did.

I ended up with a fairly tasty but very messy two plated loaf filled with luscious dark cherries and chocolate. Oh, and the other loaf that was kind of like the ugly stepchild? For some reason it turned out also. How I don’t know and that may be my problem. It will take me many, many baking sessions to understand the complexities of bread. What I’m looking at is months of failures to gather the expertise of this art. But that’s okay, I am willing to put in the time because bread making fascinates me. And really, who wouldn’t want a kitchen filled with the yeasty smells this hobby produces. My friends and family will undoubtedly either benefit from my gifts or kindly put up with my gaffs. Either way we can’t possibly consume the many loaves I’ve planned to come out of my kitchen. Especially not when I started the Keto diet yesterday. Ironic? Probably. Bad timing? Most definitely.

In short, and really, there is nothing short about this post, I will conquer bread and I will eat Keto. Just may only six days of the week. That seventh I’ll save for the love of my life, bread. Sorry husband, I didn’t mean to put you second but really, can you compete with bread?  It’s in a category unto itself.

Post script – upon cleaning up I found several loose cherries just hanging around, dripping off the lower cabinets.  They truly went far afield.  And the chocolate chips?  I discovered a few in the pocket of my apron, a few in the butter keeper, and the rest?  Still sitting in the bowl.  Apparently I gave up on incorporating them.  Lesson learned and white chocolate chips snacked on as I once again tuned into the Great British Baking Show.

I must confess, the husband and I have been binge watching The Great British Baking Show for several weekends now and have come to the conclusion I don’t bake enough. I am fascinated with the show to the extent I even start to think with a British accent. So, true to Magical Mess fashion I am now immersed in trying each and every bake I’ve seen.

This actually started out to be something the husband and I could partner in together. We figured it would be a great hobby win,e could participate  both the baking and savoring. But, as it turns out, this Magical Mess doesn’t want to share her kitchen. Nor does she want to be redirected into doing things his way. Yes, the Mess has a problem with being told what to do. And the husband has a problem with keeping his thoughts to himself. AND, in the kitchen I apparently reign supreme. So the husband is regulated to sitting at the kitchen table and slyly making comments under his breath. I tolerate this to a point and then banish him to the family room to watch Green Acres, which I can barely tolerate because who in their right mind can?

But, back to baking. I started out my quest by making an Apricot Frangipane tart. I really didn’t know what Frangipane was, but found out it’s a goo made with butter, sugar and ground almonds. (This mixture is soooo good that this Magical Mess would like to spread it all over the husband and lick it off. Oh boy, did I digress inappropriately there.) Pair this with apricots in a short bread crust and Bob’s your uncle you have a dessert fit for company. As it was our first foray into completing our quest of baking every single thing ever baked on the show, we did it together. Also, at the time I was not aware of the discord baking would cause in our marriage.

Now, keep in mind the 60” screen TV on which we view these wonderful concoctions being made is in the family room which is not part of the kitchen. And keep in mind there is no TV in the kitchen. I printed out the recipe, read it over several times and realized there were steps I saw on screen that were not on my recipe page. I wanted to make it just like they did on TV. In order to do this we needed to run to the family room, queue up the portion of the program that dealt with the tart, view the next step and then run back to the kitchen. The husband loyally followed me with every step until he didn’t.

Which, as it turns out, worked to my benefit and made me realize I didn’t want to be physically in the kitchen with him while baking. After that he took on a purely advisory role, a supervisor so to speak, sitting at the kitchen table … which then made me realize I didn’t want him to speak at all.

But, back to the start. There were many steps involved which included mixing and baking the short bread crust, (a lot of butter involved in this), poaching and cooling the apricots, (I’d never done that before), mixing up the Frangipane, baking the tart again and finally arranging the apricots in a pleasing manner topped with apricot jam for the glaze. And it was delicious. I know because we ate it all weekend. We ate it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That tart became a part of us in more ways than one. And with that glorious triumph under my belt I started to plot out the next challenge.

As this entry will be very descriptive but long I choose to post it on a different blog. See “How bread can be so right and yet go so wrong.”

I haven’t written on my blog in quite a while. Life sometimes gets ahead or behind me, I’m never sure which. But, I think I need to write my rambling, meandering thoughts just to get me back in the groove of the blog. So here goes, try to hold on because this post will go different directions, none of which make sense to the other. For after all, I am a Magical Mess.

I believe life is an adventure, unlike life is a box of chocolates. Because with the box of chocolates theory you know you’ll always get chocolate. There really isn’t a great surprise with that concept. No, life will always be surprising, filled with highs and lows, soaring accomplishments and crushing defeats. And that’s what makes it worth living.

Can you image getting up every morning and knowing exactly what is going to transpire? There are no perfect days, months or years. So, if you know what’s coming why get up and out of bed in the morning at all?

In the medical world there are genetic tests one can take to show what disease you might get in the future. The thought process behind taking one of these tests is to avoid or combat whatever disease might come your way.  I will not be taking any of these tests. I don’t want to know. I get my yearly physical, mammogram, lab tests, what have you and try to take good care of myself. Other than that I don’t want to worry about tomorrows disease. Because if I were continually worrying I wouldn’t get anything else done. And goodness knows I have a lot to do.

The husband says I have the same philosophy in life as Scarlett O’Hara in the book/ movie “Gone With The Wind.” And he’s right. She would often say, “I’ll worry about that tomorrow.” I adhere to that thought process which highlights my charm and my failings but still, I don’t want to know my future here on this earth.

Which, in a haphazard, confusing manner brings me to another point. You all know me as The Magical Mess and that title still holds true. But with the current trend of people going by their “preferred names” I have another choice by which to be called. And I’ll get to that in a minute but first I must rant a little.

These “preferred names” used to just be called “nick names.” You know, instead of William, Bill.  Instead of James, Jim and so on. Now, if you ever did call them by their full, legal name most of them would not be out of sorts about it. Especially in a setting where their legal names were important, oh, say like a medical office. But today, in our current climate of political correctness, people have decided to get up on their high horse and demand to be called Petunia when their name is really Jean. Or Fred instead of their legal name of Betty.

And so we comply. Why? Because we’ve all gone nuts. I don’t have any problem with this new fad outside of a legal setting. But come on, we’re creating legal documents here at the clinic which may or may not be used in a court of law for a myriad of instances. And consider this, their legal name is on their driver’s license and their insurance card. Do you know how confusing it is to have one name on one set of paper work and another on, say, their prescription? In the end we honestly don’t know what to call them.

But in keeping with this trend and not wanting to be left out, I have decided to go by, are you ready?, RED FURY. But only when I go to the doctor’s or anywhere else they will have to call out my name.

I am still very much a magical mess, but really now, does that preferred name invoke a sense of anything other than humor, pity, or confusion? But Red Fury brings forth what? Respect, curiosity, fear? Oh, yes, that’s it. Or should it be Red Mess or Magical Fury? The possibilities are endless. And since in this day and age one can choose anything one wants to be called, I challenge all of you to come up with your own preferred names. Cause after all, this country is already a confusing heap of humanity, why not add to it?