A Strawberry Tart

After my last experience with making strawberry tarts, where I forgot to cover the dough while it chilled and ended up with a hard ball instead of a pliable cookie-like consistency, I decided to bust out the handy puff-pastry sheets for my next attempt. I also used a different recipe where the strawberries were cooked instead of put on top of the dough afterwards. I must say I am extremely impressed with this version of the strawberry tart than I was previously. I started out with one piece of frozen puff-pastry (2 to a box!) and topped it with cream cheese and some powdered sugar mixed together.

I added a tablespoon of milk because it seemed too thick, but looking back it would probably be better NOT to add it because the mixture thinned out a lot in the oven. After spreading the cream cheese mixture out on the pastry, I mixed 2 cups sliced strawberries, some cinnamon, and 1/3 cup strawberry/raspberry jam together and poured it on top of the other. Then I cooked it for about 25 minutes in a 400 degree
oven. My oven, as I've said before, gets extremely hot, so that temp. is subject to change depending on the oven. The result: a delicious strawberry tart. The tart traveled with me to Charleston for the weekend and I'm sure Tyler will be a reference for the taste if any is required.









During the process I wore my beautiful mother's day necklace Ethan made for me and got flour all over my clothes. Needless to say, I enjoyed my therapeutic baking experience of the week.

The Worst Oven Ever

I began my day on Tuesday with the motive to make some dang good bread and a delicious strawberry cake with lemon icing. I started with the bread, scouring The Bread Baker's Apprentice cookbook Tyler gave me for my birthday. No such luck! Almost all of the cooking equations required more than 24 hours or some form of a starter, which I had not previously prepared, and so I could not use either. I resorted to my Vegetarian cookbook that amazingly possesses some good bread recipes that have served me before. I found one for sun-dried tomato and basil bread. I didn't have sun-dried tomatoes, but I decided it would just be basil bread and I began. It rose well and didn't require but about 2 hours total for mixing, rising, and cooking. However, my oven presented a new problem. It has consistently overcooked items on the bottom while not completely cooking them through and through. This bread baking experience was no different. The bottom and top started getting brown, then dark brown, while the timer had only elapsed 20 of the 25-30 minutes allotted. So I pulled it out, let it cool, and sliced it....gooey inside!!! NO! I had to cut it and cook it some more, hoping and praying the bottom pieces wouldn't turn black and hard. They didn't, but I ended up more frustrated than anything and discouraged that my bread would taste like cardboard. But it soared in flavor and was a hit at my dinner engagement with Faith and her roomie Laura. Ethan even commented on how amazing it tasted, though he was skeptical of the basil leaves originally.

After baking the bread, I started on the strawberry cake, a recipe I yanked out of a Cooking Light Magazine, where strawberries were the star ingredients of the spring recipes. My oven performed much more professionally this time and didn't let me down. However, I found the strawberry flavor did not emanate throughout the cake. It tasted good and complimented the lemony icing very well, but didn't really taste like strawberries. I threw the recipe out, discontented with the dissolution of my expectations. So I'm on the search for another strawberry cake. Maybe this time I will make it and then fill it with strawberry jam or something similar - to ensure that yummy taste!! However, though I was let down by the cake, the mixing process was beautiful and I enjoyed watching the colors mix and swirl! I enjoyed the bread, cake, and salad Faith made for us and more importantly the night of community with some good friends!

It's been only 2 weeks...

I've made it through merely two weeks of studying for my English Oral Examination in the fall, where I must face a daunting room of three professors and be quizzed on everything from The Declaration of Independence and Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy to Beowulf and John Milton's "Paradise Lost." And at the end of these two weeks, I feel as if I've accomplished nothing, other than some minor reading, and I dread reading every morning. On Monday, my friend Rachel and I went to IKEA in Atlanta in an effort not to study, and to look at some pretty cool home furnishings. On Tuesday, I indulged my desire to bake by making some delicious basil bread, see below, and a so-so strawberry cake, using a new recipe. Wednesday I sucked it up and read and posted, working hard. Thursday I went hiking with another friend, Christina and her husband James, and today I'm working again. Taking a break after the epic "Beowulf", before tackling Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Once I start reading, I really enjoy the work, but the motivation it takes to get me started is similar to the motivation it takes to get me to start running. I love to run during and after a run. I love feeling as if I'm breaking through the air, creating my own wind, feeling the air flow by my skin along with the beat of my heart in sync with my breathing and my breathing in sync with my feet pounding the gravel trail by my house. I love the adrenaline afterwards and the knowledge I've succeeded in working my body, giving it strength. But before I run, I dread the process of putting on running clothes, pulling back my short hair and crazy bangs, and even tying my shoes becomes a laborious task. The same is true for reading. I would rather take a nap, cook, or anything else to prevent myself to starting the marathon of works ahead of me. Once I start, I'll enjoy all of them, even enjoy taking notes and connecting themes and theories throughout the work. I just have a hard time getting there. In my pretended stupor of not working on my school work, I'm reminded how much I just want to escape. I want to escape Clemson, South Carolina, the US, everything. But I know my satisfaction in escaping this country wouldn't serve my true purpose. Other than missing my family horribly (Ethan would definitely be in my backpack) I wouldn't be content in another country for long before that same feeling would creep back into my life, no matter how exotic a location. I'm reminded of some words from C.S. Lewis I read in a Tim Keller book recently,

Speaking of a type of Sehnsucht, or profound homesickness or longing:
"Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth's expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things - the beauty, the memory of our own past - are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are no the thing itself...Now we wake to find...[w]e have been mere spectators. Beauty has smiled, but not to welcome us; her face was turned in our direction, but not to see us. We have not been accepted, welcomed, or taken in...

Our life-long nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation" (C.S. Lewis from The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses).

More and more, as I live in Clemson by myself, attempting school and motherhood and maybe a few friendships here and there, I'm reminded I cannot do this on my own and I long for the freedom from imperfection and feebleness. I fail so often at being a good mother and friend. I strive to do things on my own and forget to ask for help. My pride leads to my downfall and I constantly realize my shortcomings. I'm learning, seeking, growing, cherishing this tough time and hoping in what is to come.

It's been a whole year...

I must admit the obvious - I've let this blog go. The last year has been such a whirlwind of juggling two jobs, motherhood, moving, and starting graduate school I completely neglected sharing anything. With a brain on overload, I failed to think of any interesting ideas to share. I think many of the things I learn in my M.A. program in English may interest some and bore others to tears. However, for my birthday I acquired an intriguing and lovely book from Tyler LaCross encouraging me to follow my dreams of owning a bakery, one I still possess even after a whole year of following the road to academia. So, I'm beginning this book called The Bread Baker's Apprentice in the hopes of learning something new and baking delicious all-things-bread for the men in my life. Ethan does not understand my new attempt, except in his jealousy of my new apron (the one on the left), and will hopefully appreciate it when he bites into the delicious baguettes, lavash crackers, pain a l' ancienne, and panettones I wield from Peter Reinhart's award winning formulas. First I must learn some technique.

Expensive Bananas

Last night, I had the opportunity to be cheered up and delighted by my son. After waking up with a horrid sore throat and achy bones yesterday, I rested all day long, watching Vanity Fair and The Darjeeling Ltd. and I took a 4 hour nap. When Ethan got home from a fun weekend with his Dad, I was ready to see him, but kind of down that we weren't going to the Super Bowl party with our friends and that we were stranded at home alone because I felt like poo and my parents went to watch the game with their Small Group.

But, Ethan made the whole night better by helping me make his dinner, stirring my coffee for me, and then when we sat down he gave me the best compliment he could come up with.

"Mom," he said, peeling his banana, spreading peanut butter on the top and taking a big bite. "You look like a banana because you're straight and bananas are straight."

"Oh really?" I asked. "So I'm yellow too?"

"No, just straight like a banana."

I love that the humor and creativity of my son can always make me laugh. He is such an encourager and challenges me to be one daily. I have never met a more friendly 4-year-old and since I have a tendency to be socially awkward with people, he stretches me when he talks with the random person in the store and asks them to come over to our house. I think that's how life is supposed to be. Inviting the poor, inviting the unknown into our homes as a chance to love them. Of course, the person never takes him seriously and they don't follow us home. Yet, I am so much more hesitant than my son, who knows no fear of people, to open up and serve in that encouraging way.

So, as I was sitting there last night with him, I thought of the future, something I'm not completely sure of as of yet. (Yet, after hearing about a guy whose life was completely rocked by a trip to Turkey, though he's more alive now than he has EVER been, I am encouraged). But last night, I was not encouraged and thought of trying to survive financially and what kind of place we will live in if I go to graduate school or if I don't. I wonder where we'll live if I don't go to grad. school and the questions go on. They are limitless. I wonder how Ethan will feel if we're poor. Ethan seems to have a mind-reading ability and right at that moment he shattered all fears.

"Mmmmm....expensive," Ethan said.

I laughed and said, "What? You're licking peanut butter off a knife."

"The taste of peanut butter is expensive mom. Yummmmmm."

What can I fear when my son feels the cheapest staple at the grocery store tastes like money? His inclination to prefer a fold-over in a blanket (which is peanutbutter on half a piece of bread, "folded-over," and then wrapped in a paper-towel, the blanket) for every meal throws out my idea that one day he will scorn the fact that peanut butter may be our only choice for that day.

Hamsters Stink and Other Thoughts

The idealistic has worn off. The cute hamster with her babies have hit the fan, not in a literal way, but boy has it been a week of feeling that overwhelming stench of hamster poo upon my first step in the bathroom. Not only in that action, but throughout my life this week, I've been severely overwhelmed by every dirty hamster cage in my way.

The inability to find another part time job right now discourages me thoroughly. But then I hear about 66-year-old men struggling to find a job because the company they work for just fired over 22,000 people. I can't even imagine the sudden loss of the ability to support my family at such an age where the only thing you're supposed to think about it what socks to put on in the morning and if the weather is warm enough to go fishing or not. Actually I can in some ways as my father has been without a "real" job for the last year, but honestly our family has been completely fine and so I haven't been wondering where my next meal will come from or if my water/electricity will be cut off, though here at the Farm we have electric heat and rarely is our house warm on cold nights. I've learned to wear slippers.

The disappointment in friendship and the imperfection of us all has been a downfall. I hate that I mostly expect everyone else to be perfect though I'm completely content to accept or even pretend like my own griefs and selfishness don't exist. I found myself unable to listen to a friend talk about the nit-picky details of their day simply because I wanted to talk about a random occurence in my life. The point of life is to serve. There is nothing I was doing that served anyone but myself in that situation.

I've been learning about patience and "candor without malice." How does that really work? Where is the balance of loving someone and correcting them in that without the slightest bit of selfishness falling into it? It tormented me to the point of almost physical illness last night as I ran through all situations of how to correct a dearly loved and close friend without letting my own ideas of self and their situation seep into my words.

The stages of life have jumped out at me as well. While talking with one of my closest companions this week, I gained some insight into the older years. My grandparents haven't lived anywhere near me and I don't ever remember seeing them in the hospital. But when I was talking to him about his granddad, I was amazed by the words he spoke. "I'm not scared to go up there and see him sick like that anymore. This is a phase of his life, being sick, and I want to know him in it and be a part of it. Just because he's in the hospital doesn't mean his life stops. He's still my granddad every day." So often, I find myself writing off visiting people or being involved in their lives because it has changed from when I was more involved in it. I make up excuses not to go see them or take the extra initiative to drive across town. Yet, they continue to be the same person they were out of the hospital, when they lived closer, when they worked at the same location I did, etc. The list goes on and on.

And when I went and visited that friend's granddad today I was so amazed at the life still in his step, our conversation, and in his hope of recovery, something that is still unseen to him, but that he waits for with patience. I laughed with him and his wife about different things that happen when you get old (like wearing stockings to stop swelling), my young son's smart aleck antics, and the "town characters" in their hometown near Florence. It didn't matter that we were in a sterile hospital environment where a nurse could walk in at any moment, or that I had to run down the hall to find a bathroom since the one there was specifically for him. It felt as comfortable as if I was in their living room. My dear friend was right....knowing someone at every phase in life, especially the hard ones, only makes that relationship richer and the extra effort and selflessness it may take to put your emotions in check and walk into that hospital room, often end up leading to moments of laughter and thankfulness at what life brings.

I think I'll go back tomorrow and take a DVD player to him, enabling him to watch the movies I rented. But more than that, it will be an opportunity to learn more about someone else in the world other than me.

The First Slumber Party and My Birthday

Last night, for MY birthday, Ethan was allowed to have his BFF, Wyatt, who is 3, spend the night. My mother asked, "Is it Ethan's birthday, or yours?" To this question, I laughed but today I'm yawning instead. The boys went nuts. The most hilarious moments happened when they tried to boss each other around and immediately put on their mommy and daddy tones of frustration and criticism. Ethan said to Wyatt, "Wyatt, that is not funny. I told you to come back right now." Of course, Wyatt listened after giving Ethan and "What? - Wes Andrews look." However, they are still friends and Ethan and Wyatt both asked me today why they can't spend the night together every night. And the answer to that is because Sage and I both need sleep.

Otherwise, my birthday went well with an amazingly creative present from Mr. Tyler LaCross, available below.


Happy Birthday Melissa Turner from Tyler La Cross on Vimeo.

Only 10:30 and I'm ready for bed. It's amazing to me that for the first time in my life, I have only a part-time job and no school, woot woot for graduating, yet I am so busy I rarely get a moment to sit down. I can't imagine adding another part-time job to the sitch, though that is the current goal.

Goals for tomorrow include:

Inquire about hostess position at Starfire
Work at the church
Pick Ethan up from School
Down only 4 cups of coffee
Make invitations for saturday - wallet party
Bake some bread