This same time, years previous: creamy avocado mac and cheese, not what we’re used to, the definition of insanity, burning the burn pile, rhubarb daiquiri, my boy, lice, saucy rhubarb, pounding the pulpit, and classy rhubarb pie.

The other Sunday when we had dinner at our friends’ house and I was charged with bringing dessert, I took carrot cake.

I hardly ever make carrot cake. Actually, I hardly ever make lots of desserts. There are so many good desserts that it takes me months, sometimes years, to cycle round and make a repeat visit. This is the problem with variety.

I like to think of myself as consistently making certain desserts. Sweet rolls, for instance. I want my kids to grow up with abundant memories of fresh-from-the-oven sweet rolls. But truth is, I only make them several times a year. It’s kind of sad.

The same is true with pie. I go through dry pie spells, sometimes not making pie for weeks on end. But I wish pie were more of a staple in our home. Pie-filled homes feel so much more wholesome and cozy.

Fact is, one can only eat so many desserts (and some people say its actually healthier to not eat them too often, can you imagine?), and these days, my kitchen time is spent trying to knock out nourishing, well-rounded, tummy-filling meals and all the accoutrements. Out of necessity, pie crusts and glazed, yeasted goodies have taken a backseat.

But I did make carrot cake. Actually, I made two. (And this, after telling you that I don’t make many desserts. I’ll understand if you decide to never believe a word that comes out of my mouth.) I had first tried a new (ie., not my mom’s) recipe to see if there was something better out there, something with less sugar and oil, perhaps, or a maybe a bigger wallop of spice.

The newbie cake was good, but nothing special. So for the dinner we were going to, I reverted back to the good old carrot cake I grew up with. Perfection, it was. I don’t know why I ever strayed.

Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

The only difference I’ve made from my mom’s recipe is that I use currants instead of raisins. I prefer their less obtrusive and evenly dispersed bits of chewy sweetness.

2 cups flour
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
½ scant teaspoon salt
1 cup canola oil
4 eggs
3 cups grated carrots
3/4 cup currants

Mix together the dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the oil and eggs. Whisk the egg-oil mixture into the dry ingredients. Stir in the carrots and currants.

Divide the batter between two greased and wax paper-lined 9-inch cake pans. Bake at 325 degrees for 50-55 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes before running a table knife around the edge of the pan and flipping the cakes out onto a cooling rack. Peel off the wax paper. When the cakes are completely cool, ice with cream cheese frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting
8 ounces cream cheese
2 tablespoons butter
3 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon vanilla

Beat until creamy. Spread on cake.

This same time, years previous: depression chocolate mayonnaise cake, baked-in-a-pot artisan bread, take two, green smoothie, and strawberry cheesecake ice cream.
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I almost didn’t post this. And maybe I still won’t. (If you’re reading this, then you’ll know what I decided.)

See, yesterday afternoon I wrote a post about a play that my son and I went to over the weekend. The play was interesting and thoughtful, so I decided to write about it. But then I started feeling funny. For two reasons:

1) you might think I’ve been asked to do a promo review when I haven’t, and…

2) the play is about homosexuality, a topic that I’ve never written about here. To mention homosexuality, out of the blue, feels a little cavalier, like I might be exploiting an issue and/or not giving it the credence it deserves.

It didn’t relieve my anxieties any when I told my husband, “I’m writing a post about the play and I’m having some hesitations..,” and he cut me off with, “Then don’t write about it.” So not helpful.

After that, I decided I was probably over-thinking the issue and should just tell about my little Sunday afternoon and get it over with already. Bottom line: I’m cracking a can of worms when all I want to do is tell about my Sunday outing. I have no interest in going fishing.

Yesterday my older son and I went to see a private-ish showing of a new play. Only a couple churches had been invited, and since the writer/actor goes to our church (or we go to his, since he was there first), we were on the in. Lucky us.

I had hoped to see Learning to Play with my husband, but we were delinquent in making child care plans and couldn’t finagle it. So after making a couple calls to check on the show’s age appropriateness, I settled for a date with my son. He got to sit beside me and listen about the ick factor of parents (ew!) and grandparents (ew! ew!) having sex, Solomon’s concubines, sodomy, and the Song of Solomon. Lucky him.

The play is mostly a one-man show, with two other guys playing instrumental music throughout. The main character is a father who is wrestling with the news that his son is gay. There is a progressive, funny, harebrained preacher. There are visits from a couple good-hearted, church-going, question-asking guys. There’s a visit to the city-dwelling, not-church-going gay cousin. There are dreams about the deceased wife, and recounted conversations with the grandmother. Reference was made to Fresh Air and a butter-happy grandmother, so I felt right at home.

Although there were several creative spins that shed light, the play’s main ideas weren’t new to me. My boat wasn’t rocked. I wasn’t pushed. I didn’t cry. As someone on the acceptance side of the equation, I felt affirmed. The play made sense.

Much to my relief (but not my surprise), the play’s church folk, the ones who view homosexuality as a sin, were not demonized. To the contrary, I found myself respecting and appreciating their questions and honest intentions. A dozen years ago, I would’ve been speaking their lines. But I wonder, how will this play feel to those who don’t feel like it is right to be accepting of gay people? Will the play give them space to reflect without being threatened? Will they come see the play?

Later that afternoon I was telling my mom about the show and she asked, “So what was the solution? Did the play give any answers?”

No, the play doesn’t give answers. It’s the exact opposite, really: a play brimful with questions. But among the questions there is beautiful music, belly laughs, lots of mucking around in the Bible, and a father who loves his son very, very much.

P.S. My son thoroughly enjoyed it.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.29.13), better brownies, juxtaposed, shredded wheat bread, and thoughts from Marianne Williamson.