News and Opinion from Sisters, Oregon
News and Opinion from Sisters, Oregon
I am a student of religion. Most of us are, I would suppose.
Amidst my travels in this regard, I have discovered an aspect of common thought that gave form and depth to a phenomenon familiar to me since my childhood.
It is the notion of the life force within all things. Animate, inanimate, seen and unseen. All things are given personality thereby and, in varying degrees, one carries on relationships with them which are comparable to our relationships with humans.
I'm sure there are people who drive their cars around without saying a word to them. There is no negotiating with the gas guage. No little cooing, polish-rubbing noises exchanged with one's darling pseudo-sportscar. Oil changes are not viewed as treats.
I know there are houseplants everywhere, starved for a little telepathic praise or comfort. Gardens, too, with no sofas, and around whom no one hangs paintings and sculpture.
But then I live in a household where there is often the sense that anything is possible.
One of my children talks quite earnestly to her shoes. She will spend hours inside a box chatting to chessmen.
She also is inclined to perch on the fencepost and sing rowdy World War II army songs to the llamas in our pasture.
She is a homebody. The mundane is rich to her. Even her hair ribbons are imbued with anima and thus hold her interest.
This child understands me and my complex relationship with my stove.
There simply times when I have to stop and have a serious talk with my stove because it is recalcitrant. At age one hundred and thirty, it must be the oldest rebel alive.
I do have some history of tolerating odd cooking arrangements.
As a Girl Scout preparing for the wilds, I made a tiny stove out of a tomato can and a tuna can and paraffin and wicking. On this little appliance, my hamburger perspired for a long time, turned a riveting red and smelled horrifyingly sweetish.
I was to eat this in the forest.
My bridal stove was middle aged, gas. As it persevered, a leak developed behind the oven dial, which was close to the upper pilot flame. With increasing frequency, the leak was ignited in the air over the stove until I came to expect, every time I turned it on, a billowing Oz-like column of flame to shoot about two feet into the air.
It would burn out immediately, therefore I interpreted it as unintentional, a simple error, and thus applied patience. I grew to expect it and adjusted my cooking accordingly; only our guests were alarmed.
When we moved away from this stove, we thought it advisable to replace it with a large electric oven and a gas stovetop -- my personal ideal combination -- which would fit into our kitchen and provide optimum steady, as well as sensitive heat sources for baking and cooking.
Therefore we set about shopping and ended up with an antique Wedgewood sixburner with a cast iron top and tiny, erratic oven.
It was a real bargain. Salt and pepper shakers were included in that hundred dollar price tag.
So heavy, too! It required four strong, gullible men and a large batch of chocolate chip coconut cookies to bring it to rest in my kitchen where it has been ensconced for many years on red bricks and surrounded with pots and pans and garlic and chili wreaths and photographs and report cards.
It was so appealing. So cute. That cute things get away with murder is a law of the universe.
The solid plate on top faithfully and deliberately conducts high heat from the boil burner to delicate sauces next door, scorching them and burning big holes in the molecules in the bottoms of my pots. The oven harbors a minimum of three degree tilt discernible mostly on large important cakes, and its elderly thermocouple, now very full of whimsey and caprice, will, without close supervision, sear and fricasee all it entertains.
The trash burner, one justification for the original purchase, has become ornamental without a flue. A reminder of projects we should be doing.
Forgiving this beast is a theme of my life.
But when the baking urge strikes me, I tinker with it and give us both a little pep talk, and fire it up. This is happiness of a sort. This is a sort of hopeful gesture, it invites teamwork. It is coping. I like to bake.
For some nice warm work on a cool morning, try this classic Sour Cream Coffeecake for your family or good friends. It is simple and not fussy.
Preheat the oven to 350. Exhort it to behave.
Butter a 10" bundt pan and dust it lightly with flour.
Cream together:
2 sticks (1/2#) butter
2 C. sugar
Add in this order and blend in well:
2 eggs
1 C. sour cream
1 Tbsp. vanilla
Measure and sift together:
2 C. all purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
Fold the dry ingredients into the creamed mixture, and beat until just blended. Be sure you do not overbeat, or the texture will suffer.
In a separate bowl, mix together:
3/4 C. sugar
1 Tbsp. cinnamon
2 C. shelled pecans or walnuts
Pour half of the batter into the bundt pan. Sprinkle with half of the nuts and sugar mixture. Add the remaining batter and top with the rest of the nut mixture.
Bake for about one hour in the center of the oven. Test it for doneness. Serve warm.
Now give your stove a little pat. This is positive reinforcement.
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