Popping in quick to tell you it’s kind of sunny outside and we’re going camping as a family (and with the rest of the church as witnesses) for the first time EVER. (I think.) Yours truly is going to sleep (ha!) on the ground in a tent in the forecasted crash-boom storms for two nights in a row and then attempt to not bite anyone’s head off for the rest of the weekend. I’m packing Tylenol for the aching muscles I’ll be sure to get from my bed of sticks and stones, and for the killer caffeine withdrawal headaches I’m hoping I won’t have. Wish me luck.

In other news, I made the cake that’s in the most recent issue of Bon Appétit.

I followed the instructions perfectly—except for the part where I subbed in a blow torch in place of a kitchen torch and set the icing on fire a handful of times, what a blast!

But, problem is, no one really likes the cake. There’s black pepper in the frosting and, while creative and kind of yummy in a surprising sort of this-really-IS-devil’s food! way, it is a bit much. Plus, none of us like the crunch of cacao nibs in the cake. Wow, such a tender cake and—CRUNCH, CRACK—oh my, what was THAT?

There were good things about the cake. Like the tablespoon of ground espresso stirred directly into the batter. And the ultra-smooth texture of the chocolate cream. And the fact that the cake was decadent without being overly sweet and rich. And the torched icing—now that was awesome. Fun, artsy, and dramatic, yay!

All things considered, though, the devil can have his cake.

This same time, years previous: fruit-on-the-bottom baked oatmeal, grilled salmon with lemon butter, oven-roasted shallots, drying pears

My husband knows a lot of tricks. He knows how to say just the right thing to make me boiling mad. He knows how to make me purr like a cat with a surprise shoulder massage. He knows how to jack up houses and make the car run when it’s broken. He knows how to bake an apple pie. He knows how to fold a shirt (and soon after meeting my mother, he liberated her from the bondage of wrong shirt folding).

Which is another trick he knows: how to think he always know how to do something better than other people.

Problem is, he’s often right.

I don’t know about you, but I was raised to clean a room in the most traditional of ways.

1. Generalized pick-up.
2. Dust, from high to low.
3. Floors.

My husband doesn’t do dusting (he thinks it’s unnecessary, instead preferring to better insulate the crawl space so dust doesn’t keep blowing up through the floorboards—I guess you could call it Big Picture Dusting?), and when he vacuums, furniture gets tosses helter skelter in his attack on the linty floor crumbs.

However, it’s his pick-up skilz that I want to talk about. They’re tricky smooth. He can clean a room more thoroughly, more efficiently, and more quickly than anyone I know.

Here’s how he does it.

Step One: He enters a child’s pigsty—I mean, bedroom.

Step Two: He looks about him, at the mountains of clothes, bits of paper, scissors, pens, needles, cups of water, books, feathers, pillow stuffing, string, plastic toys, stuffed animals, empty boxes, decapitated glass figurines, Sunday school art projects, scarves, games, puzzle pieces, and underwear, and…

Step Three: He roars loudly, angrily, frustratedly because getting emotional and angry is key to good deep clean—you must HATE the mess. He shouts: THIS IS A DISASTER! YOUR ROOM IS FULL OF CRAP! THIS IS COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE!

Step Four: And then—here we go, people, it’s Trick Time!—he throws everything that is out of place into a pile in the middle of the room. It’s brutal. It’s swift. It’s— Hey! The room is clean! (All except that mountain there in the middle of the floor. Shall we name it? How about… Crap Mountain?)

Step Five: With the meek owner of the messy room at his side, he begins to methodically dismantle the pile. Some of the things he might say while wading through:

“Do you NEED this?”
“Will you ever actually USE this?”
“Where does THIS go?”
“Fold up these clothes and put them in your drawer—good grief, you’d think you were born in a barn.”
“These papers are trash, right? Please tell me they’re trash. Your room will look so much nicer if they’re gone. Yes? They’re trash? Good! RIIIIP. If they weren’t trash before, they’re trash now!”

And that, my friends, is how to clean a room using The Pile Method.

I’ve taken his method and adapted it to suit my needs. I call it The Wash Basket Method. When a bedroom needs to be cleaned, I send the child upstairs with a wash basket and orders to fill it with all the junk on the floor. Once filled, the wash basket gets hauled, thumpity-thump, down the stairs to the kitchen where I help sort and organize and the child runs hither and yon putting everything away.

The genius of this method is that…
*it cleans up large sections of room in mere seconds
*it centralizes the mess in a neutral location
*it removes distractions (like, I wonder how high I can stack these seashells)
*it provides a clear ending, i.e., an empty basket

Of course, all this would be much easier if the kids would just put the freakin’ stuff away to begin with. But they don’t and I’m not going to go around banging my head against the wall for the next ten years over it. I’d rather save myself the headache and hand them a wash basket.

Actually, that’s a lie. I still get headaches over their messy rooms, but a wash basket and an Aleve do make a killer team.

And if all else fails, I can always send my husband in to work his magic.

This same time, years previous: almond cream pear tart

It’s the start of a cool, rainy week (or two). I’m luxuriating in the dark dreariness, celebrating it with a large coffee swirled with dulce de leche and two squares of dark chocolate. My mouth, hot from the scalding coffee, turns the hard chocolate into velvet sweetness in mere seconds.

At the same time, I’m steeling myself for all the unpleasantness that is bound to come with the low clouds and wet air: mountains of laundry that get larger by the minute as we wait for a sunny few hours, dark moods from lack of sun therapy, hyper children with nowhere to blow off steam, lack of exercise and the heavy feeling that comes with it, a spike in the garden’s already booming weed crop.

The cool, wet weather makes me realize how much I really do like summer.

The funny thing is, winter’s not here yet, and since fall is my favorite time of the year (except for when it rains excessively) I ought to be loving it up one side and down the other instead of getting my panties in a twist ‘cause winter’s on its cozy way. Silly me, getting bent out of shape over something that hasn’t even happened yet.

So often, enjoyment is dampened with dread of what is to come. If I eat these nachos now, I’ll wish I hadn’t in the morning, you know? It’s hard to live in The Now. I do not do it well.

One could argue that my ability to see the flip-side of any situation, both good and bad, is a sign of maturity. Or, maturity aside, that I have a knack for seeing the big picture. There are certainly pros to this. When I’m in a funk or the garden overwhelms or my marital satisfaction plummets, I know, deep down inside, that it’s just a phase. It helps me get through.

But when things are nice, it’s a downer to always see the bad flip side. It goes something like this. All my kids are here with me, living life to the hilt and I love it to pieces, but OH NO! IN FIFTEEN YEARS THEY’LL ALL BE GONE AND I’LL BE A DRIED UP OLD PRUNE WITH NO SEX DRIVE AND MOSTLY DEAD, FOR ALL PRACTICAL PURPOSES. AND WHAT IF ONE OF MY KIDS DIES, OH MY WORD. HOW WILL I EVER GET THROUGH SOMETHING LIKE THAT. IT WILL CRUSH ME COMPLETELY AND I’LL WANDER AROUND LIKE A ZOMBIE AND EVERYONE WHO LOOKS AT ME WILL START TO CRY BECAUSE I AM THE EPITOME OF SORROW. OH AND OF COURSE MY HUSBAND WILL GET CANCER AGAIN AND WON’T BE ABLE TO WORK AND WE’LL HAVE TO SELL THE HOUSE AND… And by then I’m blowing my nose and have to step outside to get some fresh air except it’s raining and I can’t.

Humans have a way of dealing with this positive versus negative back and forth. It’s called Repression Mode. My Repression Mode kicks into drive when I’m doing things like the dishes, folding laundry, or writing a blog post. While dear old Mr. RM is functioning, I am able to focus on getting the task done and the peace/satisfaction/emotional high that will come from completing it while at the same time repressing the cold, hard fact that I will have to repeat the task again in x amount of time.

It is with the more nebulous, less controlled situations, like getting old, or the weather, that my Repression Mode fails me. Then a metallic, robot voice starts to drone in my ear, This is futile. You will have to do this again in x amount of time. There is no point, no point, no point.

Maybe this—the focusing on the bad when surrounded by good—is all hormonal? Maybe it’s a sign of age and an increase of wisdom? Maybe it’s the golden ticket to depression?

In any case, I have come to the radical conclusion that people who survive and stay optimistic are the control freaks, the list makers, the task-driven doers. The analytical, big picture, creative people get completely screwed.

All that to say, it’s raining outside and I like it.

This same time, years previous: NY trip, family pictures,