Bellwether Vance's Open Salon Blog

All Will be Made Clear

Fri, 25 May 2012 08:05:15 -0400

There were so many words we were not allowed to say (not just the obvious ones) and gestures that were considered too vulgar for our body parts to participate in communicating them. We couldn't point, or stick our tongues out. We couldn't say "shut up" or call someone a "liar." A lie was a "story," and that suited me just fine. I had a whole book of Bible Stories that were too fantastic to be true, and I came to understand that liars make good storytellers, and are forgiven.

My mother was the arbiter of these rules, our Emily Post and our Khrushchev. Lots of people, maybe most people, never shed the skin of childhood. It just stretches with age and if you scratch down through the epidermis, dermis and hypodermis you'll hit the tender skin of their youth. With my mother, the sequence is reversed. Her childhood layer is on top. She bruises easily and is always wearing some fresh shade of hurt or healing. I can see why she'd want to spare us her condition, to raise children above reproach.

She had it rough though, raising twins, children born to operate as a team, and Ben and I were usually in it together, unless I was in it for myself. Although he had been born first, by four minutes, it was because I shoved him out. I was, from the beginning, the boss of Ben. Which is why, when he made the mistake of saying "hell" – within some innocuous or mildly rebellious context – I held it over his head for weeks. His allowance was mine. My chores were done. Until it was time to tell.

I rushed into the master bedroom, tattle on my tongue. Ben right behind me, pleading. Our mother was lying on her back with a Merle Norman glossy, hot-pink mask on her face. It made her look like a burn victim, and she couldn't talk without cracking open. When I informed her of Ben's grievous sin, she nodded and flicked her wrist for us to go. Ben, poor soul, rather than being angry with me for tormenting him, was so relieved he threw himself into my arms and sobbed. I had saved him by wisely choosing this very moment when our mother had been rendered impotent by cosmetics to reveal his crime.

Ben never did toughen up, or wise up, but he was rescued. Just before second grade, Mama found a new best friend. Sally Sheldon, a grade-school teacher from Anniston, moved into the classroom next door to hers. Sally had two sons and one of them – Cal – was our age, a chubby, sandy-haired, blue-eyed boy with the kind of lashes you see on an expensive baby doll. He had a drum kit, an arsenal of pellet guns and a dog. I couldn't compete with that, and pretty soon Cal was the new boss of Ben.

As our parents socialized we were often thrown together, a gang of three. Only, within human relationships, there is never an equilateral triangle; someone is always at the narrowing end. I became the tagalong, the tolerated, the pest, watching Ben and Cal bond over their shared love of KISS, motorcycles and hunting. I turned inward, to books, and one of my strongest memories of that time is reading Island of the Blue Dolphins on the Sheldon's couch, feeling marooned, while Ben and Cal listened to Black Diamond a thousand times, trying to work out the guitar parts. There would be an upcoming concert in the Sheldon garage. I would be the ticket taker.

By high school, Ben was in trouble, troubled. He was emotionally unpredictable, using alcohol and drugs to mute unspeakable urges and voices. Cal was right by his side, along for the ride, just like everyone who loved him. Ben was now the boss of us all. And Cal – Cal had shed his baby fat, grown tall, broad-shouldered. He came into his inheritance, the suave grin that made his philandering daddy famous in three states. I couldn't look at either Ben or Cal without longing to see them as they once were: Ben, when he was normal and full of promise. Cal, before I desired him.

Early one morning, during the summer after high school, I came home after a night out with my girlfriends and found the house trashed. Our parents – Ben's and mine and Cal's – were off somewhere for the weekend, and we'd all made the most of it. I'd partied at a nightclub and they had partied at our house. "Holy hell, guys!" I yelled down the hall, where I knew Ben and Cal were sleeping. "You'd better get out here and clean up before Mom and Dad get back."

I heard the shower turn on, and I grabbed a trash bag and filled it with red Solo cups and pizza boxes. I gathered pieces of a broken bird figurine and thought up a lie, a story, about how it got broken. It would have to be my fault. Too many things were Ben's fault. I went to the sink, filled it with sudsy water, and I was washing plates when Cal padded up behind me. He smelled like soap. He set his hands on my shoulders, his chin on the top of my head. "Sorry about the mess," he said. Then he delivered a brotherly kiss to my cheek. After that, a lingering, not-so-brotherly kiss to the back of my neck. Another between my shoulder blades, along the spine.

I was already packed for college; my boxes were in the hall. I had worked out the person I would be, away from here, away from Ben and our parents, the people who knew me too well, trapped me into being someone they knew. I would dress differently, talk differently and be different. That was the plan and I knew that if I leaned into Cal my life would be different in some other way, a way I could not control. I said, "Cal. No."

He dropped his hands and stepped away. "It's too late, I guess. I'm too late."

I left for school. Cal and I didn't speak for seven years.

Ben's wedding was a complicated blur, but I have the photos. All of us lined up along the brick facade of the church, as if for a firing squad, wearing our best clothes and bottom-heavy smiles. Smiles that need neck muscles for support. Except for the bride. She's effortlessly beaming, oblivious.

By then the list of things we weren't allowed to say included things we weren't allowed to think. A thoughtless synapse could crack us open. So we all agreed that the bride was beautiful and the weather was unseasonably warm. I discretely scratched at the waistline of my pantyhose, where a belt of sweat was drawing tight. My mother patted my arm in warning. Stop. Then we lined up for the procession into the church, where we would perform as a gracious, above-reproach family, and when the shit hit the fan, we could claim to be surprised.

At the reception, hope came in the form of champagne and an open bar. Maybe this really would be just the thing Ben needed. A wife. A future. My mother danced with her mother. Nanny's knee-highs slipped below the hem of her dress. My father danced with me and then the bride. I danced with Ben, cheek-to-cheek, pausing to pose for a photo that would one day be the prize in my collection.

As Ben went to reclaim his bride, I was spun into the arms of the best man, Cal. He tensed as our hands met, and I did too. A gap of seven years, bridged in an instant. He grinned, that infamous, meaningless grin – perfected – and I was no longer the girl he might have loved like a sister and could have loved more. I was just a girl, any girl. He called me that when he grabbed me tight about the waist and pulled me close. "Girl, let's just dance."

And that's what we did, until our faces shone like mirrors.

Saddle Up, Cowgirls

Tue, 1 May 2012 06:05:21 -0400

I heard that Kendra is bringing chips and salsa to Sue's Cinco de Mayo party. So I call Mary Tom and say, "Can you believe Kendra is bringing chips and salsa to the party?"

Mary Tom pretends to be outraged. "Well the salsa had better be homemade. That's all I've got to say."

"What are you bringing?" I ask.

"Cheese dip," she replies.

"With the Velveeta and Rotel? Mary Tom, you can't!" Velveeta dip is great and terrible. It's the Tom Cruise of party food. Suddenly, my May 6th is foretold. I'll wake up with a blouse covered in orange drips and a belly filled with cheese-flavored regrets. I felt those same regrets the morning after I watched Vanilla Sky.

I call Sue. "I guess the first person to RSVP gets away with bringing chips and salsa? And Mary Tom's bringing Velveeta dip."

Sue says, "Why are you complaining? I spoke to you first and you told me you'd bring empanadas and that sauce that goes with them, and a Mexican cake of some kind..."

I wrack my brain for Mexican cakes. "Tres Leches?"

"Yeah, that one." I absolutely do not remember offering to bring empanadas or cake to the party, which I suspect will also be a belated surprise birthday party for me. But I have just the kind of friends that would trick me into catering my own surprise birthday party. I make a mental note to pack candles.

Kendra calls. We chat about our children and our dogs and work our way around to Sue's party. "Do you know what you're bringing?" I ask.

"I have a new recipe for a roasted poblano and fresh corn salsa. And I might make a flan. Do you have a flan pan?" Indeed I do.

I call Mary Tom and leave a message: "Kendra's making homemade salsa and flan. I guess you're going to have to do better than a block of processed cheese and canned tomatoes heated in a microwave."

Last I heard, Sue is going to have a pinata and we're all supposed to wear cowgirl attire and there will be prizes for the best outfit! Tomorrow I'm going to call Sue and up the ante by suggesting donkey rides. There's a woman in town that will bring farm animals to your party, so it's not like it would be a lot of trouble. Though there are some questions she'd have to answer: What's the weight limit on your donkey? Can it hold a grown woman full of cheese dip?

Eggplant and Smoked Cheese Empanadas

I have made from-scratch empanada dough, but in this recipe, the filling is complex and bold, and they are served with a flavorful sauce, so the frozen dough is more than adequate. I like Goya brand; it contains no lard (manteca). This dough is meant to be fried. If you want to make a baked empanada, use a pie-crust type dough.

I make the filling a day ahead and assemble the empanadas the day I'll be frying them, or I'll assemble and freeze them, flat on a cookie sheet, then sealed in a freezer bag. If you freeze them, let them thaw in the fridge completely before frying.

3 Tbsp olive oil

1 medium eggplant (about 1 pound), diced into ½ inch cubes

1 small white onion, diced (about 1 cup)

1 roasted red pepper or a small can of whole pimientos, diced

1/4 cup sun dried tomatoes in oil, diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 Tbsp tomato paste

2 Tbsp Worcestershire sauce (vegetarians look for anchovy-free brands)

1 Tbsp brown sugar

½ tsp ground cumin

1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

1/4 tsp cayenne pepper

Kosher salt and fresh pepper to taste

8 oz grated Smoked Butterkase cheese (or Smoked Gouda or Smoked Cheddar)

10 Goya empanada discs, thawed

Peanut oil for frying

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the eggplant, onion, roasted red pepper, and sun dried tomatoes. Sprinkle in a little bit of salt to get the vegetables to release liquid and cook until the vegetables are soft and slightly brown (about ten minutes, stirring frequently). Add the garlic and the tomato paste and cook another two or three minutes. Add the Worcestershire sauce, brown sugar, cumin, cinnamon and cayenne pepper. Add salt and pepper to taste. The mixture should be the consistency of pie filling. Cool completely.

To assemble: Line a cookie sheet with parchment or wax paper. On a lightly floured surface, roll an empanada disc until it's about 7 inches in diameter. Place 2 Tbsp of the filling and a heavy pinch of cheese (about 2 Tbsp) on one half of the disc. Dip your finger into a bowl of water and wet the entire edge of the dough and bring the top half over the bottom half, enclosing the filling. Press down on the edges to seal them, and then dip your finger into the water again and wet the rounded edge. Hold the empanada in one hand and crimp and pinch the edge with the other. It's best to let the assembled empanadas rest in the fridge (covered with plastic wrap or a tea towel) for at least an hour before frying.

This sounds fussy, and it is, to some degree. But once you get the hang of it, it goes quick. It took me thirty minutes to do ten, and I was being careful because of the pictures.

Deep fry them in batches, until golden brown. Put them into the oil flat side down, and don't turn them over when they float. The melted cheese will find ANY weak point in your crimp to start leaking. Just use a spatula or spoon to bathe the tops with the oil. Drain on paper towels and let cool a bit before serving with Cucumber Cilantro Sour Cream.

Cucumber Cilantro Sour Cream

This is essentially a tzatziki sauce with cilantro thrown in. Make at least four hours in advance and take the time to salt, squeeze and chop the shredded cucumber per the instructions to avoid watery/slimey cucumber shreds. If you do that, the sauce will keep beautifully in the fridge for several days.

1 large regular cucumber, peeled and seeded

1 cup sour cream (not fat-free)

½ tsp garlic powder

2 Tbsp chopped fresh cilantro (or about a handful)

Lots of freshly-cracked black pepper

Kosher salt to taste

Grate the peeled and seeded cucumber into a small bowl. Sprinkle with a bit of kosher salt and let it sit for at least an hour. Squeeze as much water as you can out of the grated cucumber. Place the grated cucumber on a cutting board and rock your knife across it in one direction and then the other, to break up any long shreds. Return the grated cucumber to the bowl and add the other ingredients. Refrigerate. Taste before serving and add additional salt and pepper if needed.

If the Creek Don't Rise

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 09:04:04 -0400

Since before dawn, Daddy's been tending to the brisket like it's a colicky beefbaby. Much later, with everyone waiting, plates outheld, he uses an electric knife and cuts down through the layers of crusty seasoning, white fat and tender meat. This is his favorite recipe, the best he has to offer those he loves.

He takes a theatrically tentative nibble and pronounces it, "Mighty fine! Not too fatty. Not like possum. Possum's real greasy." He looks to me for confirmation. He isn't addled. He knows I wasn't there. Not for the poverty, the possum, for any of it. But I'm the lone keeper of family lore, the stories and especially the food. I remember more than I can possibly remember, have learned more than I should recount, and all writers steal memories and are indiscreet with their discoveries. Right? So I can taste it -- a scummy substance coats my tongue; stringy gray slivers are stuck between my teeth.

I deliver my line on cue, "I'm not familiar with possum as a food product."

He grins his luckiest grin; he has never had to feed his children possum. "If the creek don't rise!" he says. That's his version of crossing himself or knocking on wood.

Frequently these family dinners, or toward the end, after a few jelly jars of VO and water, bring out the melancholy in my father. The bawdy jokes that started the meal will yield to weepy confessions. He sees ghosts in the empty chairs around the table, our shrinking family and his complicity. Survival can feel like failure if you start naming those you'd literally die for.

By the time we're packing up to leave, he has rallied, swung around to jovial. As we walk through the garage, past the big chest freezer and the shelves of canning jars, he stop us. "Do you need fish? I've still got trout. Pickled okra? Banana peppers..." He doesn't wait for an answer, he just fills our arms.

For the longest time, I didn't understand. His roiling emotions, or the smile he gives me each time I walk through the door, a smile so fragile it breaks his face. He looks surprised, though I've come and gone thousands of times, and – if the creek don't rise – I will again.

I understand now that I have my own empty chairs, and emotions that are surprising and too big to control. Seems like there are few opportunities to prove heroic love, and daily love is pressed into the small, swift spaces between here and there, mixed up with all the ordinary, forgettable stuff. I think that's why Daddy and I like to feed people; when memories hit your stomach, they linger a while.

My daughter came home for a night during her Spring Break. We ate sushi and went to see Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. After a few beers we were swinging each other around the dance floor, free and blameless. In the morning I fed her breakfast, and as she packed to leave I raided my pantry. "Do you need fish? Papaw gave me some trout. What about curry? I've got red, panang and green..." Without waiting for an answer, I filled her arms.

Green Curry Avgolimono

This is my favorite recipe. The best I have to offer those I love. Avgolemono is a Greek soup made with egg, lemon and rice. I learned to make a vegetarian version years ago, and then adapted the recipe to reflect our fondness for Thai flavors. I've provided recipes for both versions.

As written, this is some seriously spicy soup. But Thai heat is more of a glow-heat, one that builds and numbs and becomes addictive, not the kind of heat that blisters your mouth and attacks your mucus membranes. If you're worried about the heat level, use 1 Tbsp of the green curry paste, rather than the entire 4 oz. You can always add more later.

Use "Lite" coconut milk because the egg yolks in the recipe provide plenty of richness, and whole coconut milk is overkill. Also, if you cannot find the Swanson's Organic vegetable broth, you can use the canned broth, just cut it with a bit of water to dilute the salt. If you're not vegetarian or pescatarian, you can substitute chicken broth.

2 Tbsp vegetable oil

1 small sweet onion, finely diced (about 1 cup)

1 rib of celery, finely diced (about ½ cup)

2 large or 3 smaller carrots, 1/4 inch dice (about 1 cup)

1 4 oz can green curry paste (I like Masesri brand)

4 cups vegetable broth (homemade or Swanson's Organic)

1 13.5 oz can Lite Coconut Milk

½ cup uncooked jasmine rice

Juice of 2-3 limes

2 Tbsp sugar

3 large egg yolks at room temperature

16 large shrimp, peeled and deveined (optional, leave them out if you're going veg.)

3 Tbsp chopped fresh basil, preferably Thai basil

2 Tbsp chopped fresh cilantro

Kosher salt or fish sauce to taste

In a. 3-quart saucepan, heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat and saute the onion, celery and carrot until the onion is translucent but not brown.

Add the curry paste and "fry" until it's very fragrant. (I usually start coughing!) Add the vegetable broth and coconut milk. Bring to a bubble over medium-high heat. Add the rice. Cover. Reduce the heat to its lowest point and let it simmer for 20-25 minutes, or until the rice is tender, stirring occasionally. Add the sugar and lime juice to taste.

In a small bowl, whisk the egg yolks until they are broken up, and then slowly drizzle in a ladle-full of the hot soup broth while you whisk. Then drizzle the yolk mixture back into the soup pot, while whisking.

Add the shrimp, basil and cilantro. Continue simmering until the shrimp are cooked through and the mixture is slightly thickened. If it gets too thick (some brands of rice are starchier than others), you can thin it with a bit of broth or water. Taste for salt.

Vegetarian Avgolemono

When I'm sick, or someone I love is sick, this is the soup I make for them -- it's mild in flavor and very nourishing. As you sip, you can feel viruses being pummeled, and bones knitting together. (I made this batch for my friend Ellen, who has a bad cold, although she really prefers the Thai version! I gave her a small jar of the spicy stuff for when she feels better.)

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 small sweet onion, finely diced (about 1 cup)

1 rib of celery, finely diced (about ½ cup)

2 large or 3 smaller carrots, ½ inch dice (I cut them larger here than for the Thai version, for texture)

5 cups vegetable broth

½ cup arborio rice (Or any rice you prefer. I've used all kinds.)

Juice of 1-2 lemons

3 large egg yolks

2 Tbsp fresh dill or Italian parsley, chopped

Kosher salt to taste

In a 3-quart saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat and saute the onion, celery and carrot until the onion is translucent but not brown. Add the broth and bring to a slow simmer. Add the rice and reduce the heat to its lowest setting, and cover. Cook for 20-25 minutes (or until the rice is tender), stirring occasionally. Add the lemon juice to taste.

Temper the egg yolks by whisking them in a small bowl and drizzling in a little bit of the hot broth, while whisking. The mixture should be a pale yellow liquid. Drizzle the tempered egg yolks into the soup pot while whisking. Simmer an additional 5 minutes or so, until the soup thickens slightly. (Depending upon the starch content of the rice you used, you may need to thin the soup with some broth or water.) Sprinkle in the dill or parsley. Taste for salt.

The Anger Games

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 08:03:48 -0400

Have you ever been so mad, so violently angry, that your upper and lower teeth started biting each other and you had to put a stick in your mouth to keep them separated? I have.

It's Spring Break, 1984, and I'm on a road trip with Ellen and our friends Pam, Christina and Holly. Holly and I are opposites in nearly every way. In the animal kingdom, she'd be a cat – moody and haughty, and I'd be a dog – upbeat and affable. Or, since this story is from my viewpoint, she'd be a rattlesnake and I'd be a Disney fawn.

Within the context of our hometown we'd negotiated an truce that at times approximated friendship. Seven hours in a Buick Regal with a busted air conditioner and five overheated bodies in a negative-star hotel put an end to that right quick. Tempers were already simmering when we were turned away from a disco after the doorman laughed aloud at our fake ID's. We returned to Hotel Black Hole woefully sober, boyless, pent-up, flammable.

Someone lit a match. All these years later I can't recall the insults hurled, the grievances uttered, loudly and ridiculously, but I do remember Ellen coming between Holly and me, and how I wanted, more than anything I've every wanted, to wrap a fist around Holly's brittle Sun-In wrecked tresses and yank out a handful.

After high school, Holly moved away. I followed her movements through friends. She's in Portland teaching belly dancing! She's in Costa Rica running a Buddhist yoga retreat! Her exploits served as contrast to my regressive path, husband and children, and highlighted the mendacity of my life. My mundane despair (a nail in my tire) and mundane happiness (the fabulousness of new shoes).

Last summer, Holly's father passed away. I brought a pie to her mama's house (mixed berry almond crumb.) Holly's marriage collapsed soon after and she came home for good. If I had hoped her worldly travels would improve her disposition or soften her enmity toward me, I was soon set straight by the expressions that cross her face when I talk. Her face says, "When you speak I hear Ice Ice Baby on a loop and that's still less vacuous, less annoying than whatever it is you're saying." She keeps it real. Too real.

Holly is as Southern as I am, but her mother was apparently remiss in comportment. Some emotions are kept behind a locked door, usually the bathroom with the shower running to hide any unseemly sounds. Boastful pride. Crushing disappointment and the ensuing ugly meltdown. Jealous rage. Bald dislike. You don't serve tea with those. My mother, upon encountering a mutinous scowl or a rolled-out lip on public display, would grasp my chin, lean in close and whisper, "You had better fix your face, Little Miss!"

So, last week when the woman behind me in the grocery store line, who drove a motorized cart and had one leg bandaged to the thigh, began telling me about her infections, for a split second I was slightly uncomfortable. Until I fixed my face. It was the least I could do for a lonely elderly lady with a foot the shape and color of an eggplant. I know one day I might have my own diseased eggplant appendage I need to talk about. You absolutely cannot depend upon the kindness of strangers, but it is a lovely thing. You can't count on the justness of karma, either, but when something bad happens to me I like believing I didn't have it coming. Holly's unrestrained features are no more or less self-satisfying or authentic than the ones I carefully present.

Ellen says I have it all wrong about Holly. "It's just hard for her to trust people. We've talked some, about her experiences and her beliefs. She's deeply spiritual."

I say she's deep enough to drown a toddler. You know the warning on a five gallon paint pail, the graphic of a heavy-headed baby tipping in? That's Holly. She's a bucket you could fall into. "All I'm saying is that she has a dark side."

"So do you," Ellen replies. (Sometimes I forget I've known Ellen a long time. That I've been other people, and she's met them all.)

"She's darker," I say.

Shamefully, I admit none of Holly's character flaws would matter if she liked me. My regard is that cheap. Dime store prices. A buck will buy you ten.

My last encounter with Holly was in late January, a Girl's luncheon. When I turned to engage Holly in conversation, I heard the distinctive bass line from the Vanilla Ice classic, and I realized it wasn't just dislike she felt for me. It was anger. She was still angry about something that happened almost thirty years ago, something neither of us can remember with absolute clarity. I'm probably still angry about that same thing, and if she could take the stick out of her mouth, and if I could remove the one from my butt, we might enjoy a measure of fondness for our shared history. Right then, though, I wished I had grabbed a hank of her hair when I had the chance.

Thank goodness I fixed my face before I poured her a glass of tea.

Sweet Surrender

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 08:02:48 -0500

I hope I never get a total on the number of hours I spend watching awful television. Utilizing that time productively I could have cured cancer with lentils (it is possible!), mastered another language, or at least learned to order off the menu of our favorite Thai restaurant without cracking up the waitress. Instead, the list of shows I've watched regularly ticks off all the danger boxes on the intake form for Imbeciles, an inpatient facility for the stubbornly ignorant.

My husband appears, hovers, over my shoulder while I'm watching television. I hate that. I don't need witnesses to my depravity. He asks, "What are you watching?"

"Cupcake Wars," I mumble, figuring out too late there's no way to effectively mumble that combination of letters.

"Ha. Ha," he says.

"Seriously. That's the name of the show."

He frowns. "Is it supposed to be funny? A funny show?"

"No," I say. "It's cupcakes and wars, together, unironically. After this, Pudding Feuds comes on."

He brings a hand up to his chest to signify an oncoming heart attack. I quickly assure him, "I'm just kidding. There's no Pudding Feuds."

He continues to stand behind me, watching, while the cupcake soldiers scurry about in a panic, arming themselves with spatulas and confectioner's sugar. The losers will be sent home to make more cupcakes. The winners get to stay and make more cupcakes. "Don't watch this," I snap. "You won't like it. It's a stupid show."

"So why are you watching?" he asks.

I take a big gulp of beer to top off the vat where lentils and language lessons should be brewing a better me, where there are only fermenting good intentions. I answer truthfully and with a ladylike belch, "Hell if I know."

There is no reason in the world I should be watching a show about cupcake bakeries. Bakeries are for eclairs and baguettes. Cupcakes are for elementary school birthday parties, as school rules prohibit cake knives – for good reason. I've never been with a large group of children for longer than an hour without thinking wistfully of hari-kari.

Additionally, in the epic battle of pie vs. cake, I march for pie. In the mismatched fistfight of creamed rutabagas vs. dessert of any kind, I pledge allegiance to rutabagas. Three lives ago I was a babushka in rural Hungary and in my subsequent lives I haven't yet adjusted to the abundance of white sugar in The America.

Creamed Rutabagas (with lots of pepper)

Regarding cupcakes, my lingering babushka distinctly dislikes swirly dollops of terribly sweet frosting atop pucks of dry cake, and the frivolity of sprinkles when so much is wrong with the world.

As so often happens in my life, once I feel comfortable taking a firm stand against something – sex before marriage, sardines, cupcakes – I'm proven wrong.

Needing to make cupcakes for the birthday party of an adult woman I call "a friend" despite her questionable taste in baked goods, I dug up a frosting recipe sent by email from another friend who swore the recipe was to die for. I didn't believe her, and I should have. It's everything a frosting should be – rich but light, creamy but not greasy, and exactly sweet enough. The first taste was revelatory, revolutionary, the shot heard round the rutabaga, signifying the end of a long civil (cupcake) war. I lost and I won. As I expired from my mortal battle wounds, I whispered, with sprinkle-studded lips: I regret that I have but one life to give...

The Ultimate Frosting

The email from my friend contained no provenance for this recipe. I have seen similar recipes for frostings that use a flour/granulated sugar mixture rather than confectioner's sugar, but the technique used here is different from those. Google brought up a jumble of confusing results. I'd like to give credit, and a medal of some sort, to the original creator, so if anyone knows his or her name, please pass that information on to me.

The original recipe calls for 1 cup of whole milk, but I rarely keep whole milk on hand – we drink skim milk; I cook with heavy cream – so I use ½ cup heavy cream and ½ cup skim milk. The recipe will work either way.

1/4 cup flour

1 cup sugar

pinch of salt (if you're using unsalted butter)

½ cup cream

½ cup milk

2 tsp pure vanilla extract (the best you can afford)

1 cup (two sticks) butter – salted or unsalted – slightly softened but not at room temperature and cut into ½ inch cubes.

In a heavy saucepan, mix the flour, sugar and salt (if needed). Whisk in the cream and milk. Whisk constantly over medium heat until the mixture comes to a slow boil and is thickened like a loose pudding, about 7 minutes.

Pour the hot pudding into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. You can use a hand mixer, things will just take a little longer. Beat on high speed until the mixture is cooled to room temperature and fluffy (about five minutes). Lower the speed to medium and add the butter a little bit at a time. Crank the speed back up and beat until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and blend to incorporate. If the frosting is too loose, put it into the refrigerator for 10 minutes or until it reaches spreading or piping consistency.

Coffee Chocolate Cupcakes

1 cup buttermillk

1 cup coffee at room temperature

2 cups sugar

2 large eggs

½ cup vegetable oil

2 tsp vanilla extract

3/4 cup cocoa powder

2 cups flour

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

½ cup chocolate chips

Preheat your oven to 350. In a stand mixer the whisk attachment, mix the buttermilk, coffee and sugar on medium speed until they are blended. Add the eggs one at a time. Add the vegetable oil and the vanilla extract. Turn the mixer to low and add the cocoa powder. Blend until everything is smooth, scraping the sides down now and then.

In a small bowl mix the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Use a sifter or a whisk to make sure everything is well blended.

With the mixer on low speed, add the dry ingredients to the wet and blend until the flour is incorporated. The batter will be thin, and there might be a few lumps.

Line 2 cupcake pans with paper liners and fill each cup 2/3 full. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until they pass the toothpick test.

Makes 24 cupcakes