Day 81 Thanks, Mom
A couple of years ago, in a moment of complete and utter self-delusion, I bought my parents a gift pass at a local Iyengar yoga studio. Now, Iyengar yoga is not like Bikram, lest you think it was an assassination attempt. Iyengar’s all about recovery, regaining normal function, and uses a lot of props. Belts, blocks, bolsters, blankets, folding chairs, anything to help you get into the posture safely, without hurting yourself.
My parents are at the age where mobility is getting to be an issue, and the instructor promised me it would be a beginner-and-senior-friendly class. I warned her that my parents would be… reluctant learners.
She told me she was looking forward to meeting them.
As it turns out, they went to one class, the instructor mentioned something about a Buddhist monk and that was it.
“I liked the exercise part,” Mom said. “I just ignored the rest.”
“I didn’t want to hear about some monk,” Dad said with what I thought was unnecessary malice.
They never went back. Oh well. They get points for going at all, in my book.
Actually, if I think back, I have my mother to thank for my interest in yoga. Yes, my Mennonite mother introduced me to yoga, via the television show, Kareen’s Yoga. Apparently I’m not the only one who remembers this BC celebrity. From an article by Pamela Post, in Today’s Vancouver Woman:
For a decade, from 1970 to 1980, Kareen hosted a national daytime show, Kareen’s Yoga, on CTV. She was like a lithe, spiritual Elke Sommer with her blonde hair, German accent, and awesome ability to bend into the full pantheon of yoga poses. She brought yoga, meditation, and whole food nutrition into the living rooms of ordinary Canadians. Folks with a penchant for Kraft Dinner and Hockey Night in Canada began doing headstands and eating whole grains. Depressed Canadian housewives got off their meds and started meditating.
I remember a ridiculously small black-and-white TV set with rabbit ears balanced on the top, and my mom on the floor, following along. I remember Kareen’s black cat, Mouffie, who practiced with her on the show, except that in my memory, Mouffie is a Siamese. (It was probably the cat that got my attention; I was always angling for a house-cat in those days. In my family, cats lived in the barn and ate mice, and the farmer squirted milk into their mouths directly from the teats of the cow.)
My mother, it seems to me now, must have been something of a rebel amongst her brethren and sistern. Kareen’s Yoga, after all, showed a bare-limbed woman moving her body with joy – even smiling – with no husband in sight anywhere. It certainly warranted suspicion right up there with further education, Roman Catholicism, liqueur-filled chocolates and The Naked Heathen. Plus, Kareen was meditating. That was a lot like praying. Except it wasn’t!
But what do I know? Maybe Mom only had the TV on because she was waiting for Hymn Sing or Tommy Hunter.
There’s more to most mothers than meets the eye of their offspring, though. Mom as a 1970’s-yogini? Why not? That what I choose to believe.
Day 79 Cinnamon Buns, For Real!
Nothing makes yeast breads rise quite as nicely as potato water, and since I happened to save some after making supper last night, I was inspired to bake today. Once the thought entered my brain and set up shop, it didn’t really matter that I had several things to do after yoga; I began craving cinnamon buns, and that was that.
I used to bake a lot, part of my earth-mother persona, and I’m pretty good at it. It’s kind of a Mennonite thing. However, I’m what I call an extemporaneous cook, considering recipes more of… guidelines… than hard and fast rules. I’ll go off on a tangent, substituting hither and yon, cutting corners on overly complicated recipes and generally making stuff up as I go along.
The first thing my daughter asked when I told her I was baking cinnamon buns was, “real ones?”
“What do you mean, real ones?” I asked, affronted.
“No nuts or oatmeal or Splenda or-”
“Yes,” I snapped. “The real thing. All the sugar, all the butter, nothing healthy. Don’t worry.”
I didn’t tell her, but I’ve switched to a new flour, supposedly it has all the nutrition of whole wheat, but the look and taste of white flour. We’ll see.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mom,” she hastened to add, aware that as the main Food Provider, I’m also able to block access to the goods. “Your other ones were delicious too. They just weren’t… you know… cinnamon buns.”
Yes, I remember. And she’s being generous; they were horrid gummy tooth-breakers, not in the same class of baked item. As evidenced by the Canned Kale Pasta Debacle, not all my experiments are successful.
Well, I’m happy to say that, despite my lack of practice, today’s effort was worthwhile – and nobody even noticed that they’re not quite as white as usual.
If anyone’s interested, here’s the recipe. (I use skim milk, and cut the recipe so I can use my Bosch mixer. I also put brown sugar and raisins in the filling, but other than that, it’s the Real UBC Cinnamon Bun.)
UBC CINNAMON BUNS (TRADITIONAL METHOD)
These legendary cinnamon buns were first introduced to the University of British Columbia’s students in the early 1950s. The recipe has been printed numerous times in The Vancouver Sun and every year they still get requests for these light-textured buns. Although large, they’re not as rich and gooey as some cinnamon buns.
Dough
3 cups (750 mL) milk (2 per cent M.F.)
6 tablespoons (90 mL) butter
6 tablespoons (90 mL) granulated sugar
1 tablespoon (15 mL) salt
1 teaspoon (5 mL) granulated sugar
1/2 cup (125 mL) lukewarm water
2 (8 g) packages traditional active dry yeast
2 large eggs
9 cups (2.25 L) all-purpose flour, about
Filling
11/4 cups (300 mL) granulated sugar
2 tablespoons (30 mL) ground cinnamon
3/4 cup (175 mL) melted butter, divided
Dough: Scald milk. Stir in butter, 6 tablespoons (90 mL) sugar and salt. Cool to lukewarm.
Dissolve the 1 teaspoon (5 mL) sugar in lukewarm water. Sprinkle yeast over water mixture. Let stand in warm place for 10 minutes; stir.
In large bowl, combine lukewarm milk mixture and eggs. Stir in dissolved yeast. Add 4 to 5 cups (1 to 1.25 L) flour and beat well for 10 minutes. With wooden spoon, gradually add enough of the remaining flour to make a soft dough.
Turn dough out on to lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic, adding additional flour as needed. (This is a soft dough.) Place in well greased bowl and roll dough over to grease the top. Cover with a damp cloth and let rise in warm place for 1 hour or until double in size.
Meanwhile prepare filling: In small bowl, combine sugar and cinnamon; set aside.
Punch down dough and turn out on to lightly floured surface. Divide dough in half.
Roll out each piece of dough into 18×9-inch (46×23 cm) rectangle. Brush each rectangle generously with melted butter. Place remaining melted butter in bottom of 161/2 x111/2 x21/2-inch (42x29x6 cm) pan.
Sprinkle an equal portion of sugar-cinnamon mixture evenly over each rectangle. Roll each dough rectangle up tightly like a jelly roll, starting from the long side; pinch seam to seal. With sharp knife, cut into 2-inch (5 cm) slices. Arrange slices, cut-side down, in prepared pan and cover loosely with greased wax paper. Let rise in warm place for 45 to 60 minutes or until doubled in size.
Bake at 350 F (180 C) for 35 to 45 minutes or until baked. Remove from oven and immediately invert on to serving tray.
Makes 18 large cinnamon buns.
Approximate nutritional analysis for each serving: 433 cal, 9 g pro, 14 g fat, 69 g carb.
Day 74 No Judgment
Anthea often tells us in class to listen to our bodies, do the postures as best we can, with no judgment. “Time and patience,” she says. “That’s how you improve.”
I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly patient person, however when I think of the activities with which I occupy my time, it becomes pretty clear I have a thing for delayed gratification. Yoga can take weeks, months, years to see results. Gardening, an annual just-wait-until-next-month/season/year/house project. Parenting, generally considered an eighteen-year project. Marriage, for the lucky, and the tenacious, a lifelong project.
Then there’s writing.
I’ve been published off and on for the last couple of decades, in print, on-line, in magazines and book format, short-stories and full-length, fiction and non-fiction. And while every now and then I get a lovely burst of “free money” in the mail, overall, I’ve probably made the full-time equivalent of about 0.23/hour. Freelancing is not a career choice for those with loftly financial goals.
Fortunately, the Mennonite in me disparages filthy lucre anyway. (Plus my husband makes enough for both of us, so I can afford to be philosophical.)
But there’s is still something about financial reward that makes a person feel valued, Mennonite self-loathing aside. And when it comes to the writing life, recognition tends to come in fits and starts, long periods of drought broken up by mists, drizzle and the occasional deluge.
I learned this week that 1) my agent is going to pitch my book proposal at Book Expo America, only the biggest publishing event in North America 2) the wonderful people at Heritage House are releasing the new, improved version of my first book, Great Dog Stories, and 3) are going to repackage my worst-selling but arguably best book, Wildlife in the Kitchen, with a new title and new cover. (Who knew that a cross-eyed rat wouldn’t warm the hearts of chain representatives? Or that the title could be interpreted as a cookbook? Roasted Roadkill, anyone?)
So as always when it comes to my career, time and patience is of the essence. Keep on keeping on, no judgment.
I guess I can do that.