Usually, it’s the parents who are proud of their kids. Parents get to be proud of all manner of glorious things: that Little Tot stayed seated on his bottom for a whole entire meal, that Bonnie learned to read, that Shy Girl read scripture in front of church, that Duddly made a phone call and said please and thank you, that Joey blew his nose instead of picking it. Et cetera. There’s bigger things, too, like being proud when the kids donate blood, give a speech at graduation, and refrain from snapping off Aunt Ida’s irksome head.

But sometimes kids get to be proud of their parents, too. I’m not talking about the ordinary “respect your elders” deal. I’m talking about the beaming-pride feeling, the feeling where if you were sewed together with needle and thread, the stitches would actually pop.

That’s how I feel about you and your novel. ‘Cause writing a novel is a pretty big deal. You did it, Mom, so you should know.

I’m writing this letter even though I haven’t actually seen the book yet. It’s due to arrive at my doorstep any minute. I’m jittery with excitement and am starting to do the swivel-head thing, swiveling my head to look out the window whenever a car goes by.

It doesn’t seem quite right that I’ll get to see the book before you do, does it? But you said no when I offered to wait to open the package till you’d received yours. I’ll wait to publish this post until it gets here, though—I want to take a picture of it—and I’ll call you right away and give you a play-by-play.

I know you think it’s in bad taste to be publicly prideful of your offsprings’ strong suits, and I have to say I agree. But I think it’s different when a kid gushes over a parent. I didn’t raise you, after all, so your successes are not a direct result of anything I did. Down here, looking up, I can gloat with abandon.

Though I still try to play it cool. The other week when you and Dad came to our place to scout out a property (I can’t wait till you guys move close), you, up to your eyeballs in last minute edits, brought along your computer and stayed focused amidst the general chaos that rocks my home. And when The Baby Nickel came down with some bug, you happily offered to stay home from church to watch him. I told my Sunday school class about my crazy mother, at home hunched over her computer, ignoring all of us. I rolled my eyes and sighed theatrically, but I don’t think I fooled anyone. They could all see I was pleased as punch.

You’ve written other books before, but this is your very first novel. Novels are scary. They’re huge. They can almost eat you alive, but you whipped that little (big) booger into shape, yes you did. (Don’t worry, I won’t let slip how long it took.) You worried that you wouldn’t ever get it done, but it didn’t really stand a chance against you.

“Yeah, right,” I can hear you mutter. (But you’re smiling through your mutterings. I can hear that, too.)

“It’s pure torture,” you liked to moan, as you wallowed sluggishly through each paragraph, each sentence, each syllable, hunched and vacant-eyed. But I could tell (though you’ll probably deny it up one side of today and down the other) that you liked it. You weren’t having fun exactly, but you were doing what you wanted to do. There’s a lot of pleasure to be found in doing something hard—trite, but true, don’t knock it.

For your first (!) novel, you tackled one heck of a topic, too. Salvation, oh good heavens! It’s no small matter, but the issues—craftily paired with rhapsodic accounts of luscious berry pies and jars of home canned garden goodness—offer much food for thought. Of course, seeing as I was raised by you, I’m partial towards your view points. However, I think we might be in the minority. But that’s okay. It’s an invigorating place to be.

I like your website, too. It’s barebones simple (the Balding Brother did a good job on it), but cozy, too, chock-full of your exquisite writing and spiked with provocative ideas. I spent a couple days reading through all the bonus essays you posted. For some of them, I whooped out loud. (I don’t remember you making us memorize “Happy are you when people hate you, reject you . . .” when Dad got fired, but I wouldn’t put it passed you. Did you think that was a witty joke back then? Your way of making a funny during those anxious, angry days?)

And just this morning, I discovered the wonders of StumbleUpon (kind of a dumb thing to do when I’m already frittering away too much time on the internet) and I “liked” your site. An official little page popped up and told me to wait while it verified your site and then a new sign popped, “Yay! You’re the first to discover this site!” Let the fun begin!

Love,
Your Seam-Bustingly Proud Daughter

The book
The website

This same time, years previous: potatoes with roasted garlic vinaigrette

Last night I held a baby. I was at the children’s museum, standing by our Fresh Air Fund table, when a neighbor lady walked in with her four little girls and newborn baby boy. As soon as she ushered them all through the heavy, glass doors, I pounced, oohing and aahing until I forced myself to back down.

I returned to my station and sat down, demurely smoothing my skirt. I picked up some brochures and tried to focus on the task at hand—recruiting host families—but then it occurred to me, maybe my neighbor lady’d like to have someone hold the baby for her? I snaked my way back through the crowds until I found her. I smiled warmly (but not overbearingly, I hoped) and said, “If you want, I’d be glad to hold your baby for you while you walk around. I’m just sitting over there and can easily take him. If you’d rather not, that’s fine, too. But I’d sure love it.“

What I wanted to say was, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME HOLD YOUR BABY. I NEED TO HOLD HIM. I MUST HOLD HIM. IF YOU SAY NO, I MIGHT DIE. PRETTY-PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON TOP?

“Well sure,” she said, handing him over.

I floated back to my seat, hardly believing my good luck, a huge grin pushing my cheeks up so high that my eyes almost squinched completely shut. I waited till I was sitting again before examining the little snoozing bundle. He was perfect. A round head, creamy complexion, dainty, perfectly-formed features, a downy-soft head. I sniffed his top-fuzz—so warm! so milky!—and melted. My whole body relaxed. Intense feelings of complete well-being washed over me. I felt drunk.

I swayed from side to side in my blue plastic chair, patting his little bottom and smiling wildly at anyone who made eye contact with me. I wanted to shift him so his head would rest on my shoulder so that each time I inhaled I could fill my whole respiratory system—my very cells—with whiffs of his baby scent, but they had warned he was a fussy baby, and he was sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t dare.

When the family gathered around me a half hour later, ready to leave the museum, I stared straight ahead, pretending they weren’t there, trying to suck just a few more minutes of baby therapy out of that bundle.

This baby crazy maternal weirdness just shows you how very far out of the baby stage I am. I have never been a baby person. I like them well enough, but generally my rule is, if it ain’t mine, I don’t need it. Or even want it. For the last decade I have been up to my eyeballs in my own babies’ scent. The little ones drained me so thoroughly that I never even had one iota of interest in holding someone else’s baby.

But now. Now I get misty-eyed when I just think of holding a baby.

It’s not like I think about them all the time, ’cause I don’t. And I don’t want to have another one of my own (though the thought has occurred to me). It’s just that when I see a baby—and it must be a newborn; right around the six-month mark, I lose interest—I get a little delirious.

On the other hand, I got a taste of my future—a very baby-less future—this morning, and it was intoxicating in its own right. What happened was this: in less than two hours, we, all six of us, cleaned the house from top to bottom. Every single person pulled his or her weight. We got along together. Parents supervised and kids promptly obeyed. No one argued (except for one minor blooper). We were a well-oiled machine. It was perfectly blissful.

I really like babies. And I also really like not having babies anymore.

This same time, years previous: ice cream cake, lemon tart

It all started when I read the post in which Elise wrote about her friend’s cheesecake, purportedly the perfect cheesecake. This claim, in and of itself, did not get my attention. Lots of people claim to have the best cheesecake in their repertoire, but usually their recipes are loaded with things that I don’t consider appropriate for cheesecake. Zests and spices have no place in the realm of classic. Don’t even bother to mention pumpkin, liquors, and chocolate. All those things are good, no doubt, but they do not belong anywhere close to a classic cheesecake. I like my cake bare bones—just cream cheese, sugar, eggs, and vanilla. I’m a cheesecake purist.

But this cheesecake of Elise’s young friend, Audrey, was remarkably similar to mine. It was the same ingredients mostly, just in different proportions and with some interesting techniques, namely, double-wrapping the pan in foil and baking the whole cake directly in a large pan of boiling water. Clearly, I had to give it a go.

So I did. And I liked it. I like it a lot. I liked that the crust was just on the bottom of the pan, not running up the side like the crust in my recipe. With less crust, more of the pan was available for the creamy cake. This was a very good improvement indeed.

I liked that the cake had heft. Just holding the pan in my hands, I could tell it was a cake to be reckoned with.

And the cake itself was creamy and very dense.

I liked—no, loved—the tang of sour, thanks to the addition of sour cream to the batter.

The cake wasn’t as sweet as mine. I liked that, too.

But there were things I didn’t like. I didn’t like that the crust was so soft and dry, and there was still too much of it. I was on the fence about the almost straight-up sour cream topping—could there be such a thing as too much sour cream? And I wondered if the cake might be missing some lightness due to the fact that the egg whites weren’t separately whipped and then folded in.

Clearly, I was left with no other option. I had to make another cheesecake.

(Of course, this whole question of which cheesecake takes first place is really just an exercise in hair-splitting. When it comes down to it, you can’t go wrong when you take a set of beaters to cream cheese, sour cream, and sugar. But I’m wanted to get it as right as Right could possibly be.)

The second time around I used my recipe, but with some changes. I cut back on the amount of crust, patting it just on the bottom of the pan, and I adding a half cup each of sour cream and whipping cream to the batter. I used my recipe for the topping, too.

The result? I’m not sure! Last night, after doing some solo analyzing during the afternoon, I begged and pleaded with Mr. Handsome till he agreed to do a taste test with me. (The trials I put that man through!) I put a fraction of a tiny little sliver from each cake on two plates, Audrey’s cake on one side, my played-with classic cheesecake on the other. We nibbled. We pondered. We contemplated. And I peppered him with questions, milking him for all the feedback he was worth.

What do you think of the cake, the inside part? Which one is creamier? Which flavor do you prefer?

And, What about the crust? Do you like the softer one, or the crunchier one? I think I might actually like the softer one after all!

And, How about the topping? You like the lighter one? Really?

He gamely answered my questions, doing his best to help meet my deep-seated need to find cheesecake perfection. Once he sighed heavily, contemplating the cost and calories loading up the fridge, and then said, “Well, pack up a big slice and I’ll take it with me to work tomorrow to share with everyone.” I poked him in the ribs and hissed, “You secretly like it that your wife is going to figure out the best cheesecake!” and he grinned sheepishly.

In the end, we drew completely different conclusions. He thought Audrey’s cheesecake was lighter and I thought Audrey’s cheesecake was denser. Clearly, he was confused, so in the spirit of rigged taste testing, I scrapped my husband’s opinions and went with my own. Here’s what I think: Audrey’s cheesecake really is perfect.

There is still too much crust and the recipe makes too much sour cream topping (put the extra in the Sunday waffles), but. But.

The baking method, poaching the cake, is brilliant. It gets the cake as moist as moist can be. I think it’s a mistake to whip the egg whites the way I’ve been doing all along. It adds too much air and makes the cake almost crumbly. I like that she uses less sugar and adds sour cream—this is not a confection you are indulging in, it’s a cheesecake all the way, baby.

Most of you probably think that I’ve lost all of my senses, obsessing over cheesecake like so, but I beg to disagree. If I was truly crazy, I would make a cheesecake yet again—Audrey’s recipe but with a few tweaks (mostly the crust and topping issues)—so that I could give you The Final Perfect Cheesecake.

But I’m not that crazy. What I’m going to do is give you The Perfect Classic Cheesecake recipe as is, with a few of my changes written in. And while I’ve never made the recipe exactly how I’m writing it out, I’m certain it will be absolutely fine. I ought to know, after all this excruciating scrutinizing.

Oh yes, just one more thing.

The raspberry sauce is not to be missed. At first, when my mom heard I was making the sauce, she pooh-poohed me most vigorously.

Cheesecakes don’t need sauces, she lectured. All that fruit is just peripheral. It detracts.

Later, after I sent some cake along when we met to fetch back the little kids, she actually got to eat some. When she called me next time, she was singing a completely different tune.

The Perfect Classic Cheesecake
Adapted from Elise’s friend Audrey’s recipe over at Simply Recipes

This cake improves with age. Make it a day (or even two) ahead of time.

Prepare the pan:
Set your 10-inch springform pan on a large square of heavy-duty aluminum foil. Gently pull the piece up around the outside of the pan. Repeat with a second square of foil. Crimp (scrunch, press, and fold, whatever works) together the two pieces of foil. Be gentle—any holes will prove disastrous.

For the crust:
1 3/4 cups graham cracker crumbs
2 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons butter, melted

Stir the crumbs and sugar together. Using a fork, mix in the melted butter. Poor the crumbs into the baking pan and spread them around evenly. Using your fingers, press the crumbs down firmly. Bake the crust at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.

For the cake:
2 pounds cream cheese
1 1/3 cups sugar
pinch of salt
4 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2/3 cup sour cream
2/3 cup heavy whipping cream

Cream together the cream cheese, sugar, and salt. Add the eggs one by one, beating after each addition. Beat in the vanilla and sour cream. Beat in the whipping cream. Pour the batter on to the baked crust.

Set the cake on another pan, one that has sides, and fill the outside pan with boiling water. You want the water to be about ½-inch high. Bake the cake at 325 degrees for 1 ½ hours. When done, the cake should still be a little wobbly in the middle.

Prop open the oven door just an inch (I wedge it open with the handle of a wooden spoon) and allow it to cool for another hour. Remove the cake from the oven and its pan of water. Remove the foil wrapping. Tent the cake with a clean piece of foil and chill it in the fridge for a couple hours. When the cake is completely cool, spread with the sour cream topping and return to the fridge to chill some more. To serve, run a knife around the edge of the cake before removing the sides. Serve with raspberry sauce.

For the topping:
2 cups sour cream
1/3 cup powdered sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 recipe of raspberry sauce (recipe follows)

Stir together the sour cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla. Spread it on top of the chilled cheesecake. (You will probably have extra.)

Raspberry Sauce
12 ounces (not quite 1 quart) frozen (or fresh) red raspberries
½ cup sugar
½ cup water

Put all the ingredients in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Mash the berries with a potato masher or the back of a spoon. Stirring frequently, heat the sauce to boiling, and then reduce heat and simmer for about five minutes, or until the sauce is starting to thicken. Cool to room temperature and store in a covered container in the refrigerator. To serve, apply liberally to cake.

This same time, years previous: learning to draw, snow play, a bedroom birth,