On Singing

I love to sing. It is an expression of gladness that enhances almost any scene. It opens, I think, the brain cells, and airs them out.

Spontaneous trilling is my form and it is generally reserved for private moments when there is no one around to point out flaws.

The truth is that I have a tinny, child's voice which is inclined to wander vaguely from the prescribed tune, out beyond favorable harmonies into the tonal realms of the lone honeybee shopping in crabapple blossoms. Preoccupied usually. Off-key. Far from home.

The first self-assertive statement I remember from each of my children has been, "Don't sing, Mommy, please." After all those lullabies, they suddenly start listening to me and I am silenced.

I break into my one long Gaelic sob song while driving the straight flat highway with the windows down and they look at me askance, flattening the lids of their eyes ever so slightly and ask, in the dry manner of youth, for the radio. I am filled with pathos.

I have taken the trouble to sing to them in Latin and teach them little French songs as well as my father's Philadelphia repertoire, including the timeless and all purpose "Who Through the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder?" and still I am unappreciated.

I know all the verses of the Twelve Days of Christmas, but to volunteer causes riot in my home.

Cruel, cruel children.

Luckily I am dauntless. My response--my learned behavior modification--has been to sing like the canary does: when the sun is out, when the vacuum is blazing away, when I hear running water or old time rock and roll,I join in, independent of presiding melodies if necessary, but not quiet.

So when I cook, I turn on raucous music with the volume nice and high and rock out to my favorites, all memorized so that I can add, freely, dance steps and fancy arm movements when I am so moved. Thus is produced a fine sense of synchronicity with all the props and utensils and fresh ingredients of my trade; and an improved pace of innovation.

Try rhythm and blues while you try Wild Irish Rose Sourdough Prune Cake. This is an old recipe. I didn't make it up; it was a gift.

1/2 C. lively starter

1/2 C. shortening, butter or margarine, softened

1 1/2 C. sugar or 3/4 C. honey

2 eggs

2 C. sifted flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. salt

1 C. buttermilk (use 3/4 C. if you use honey)

1 C. chopped walnuts

1 C. chopped, cooked prunes (or dates, uncooked)

Cream the shortening and sugar or honey. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well. Add the buttermilk.

Add the sourdough and stir gently.

Sift dry ingredients together and add to the mixture along with the nuts and prunes.

Bake at 350 for 40 minutes in a well greased 9 x 13 baking dish.

Wild Irish Rose Sourdough Prune Cake is perfect for the upcoming picnic season; it keeps and it has a tender, comforting crumb.