A Baker's Manifesto

Dear Readers,

Earlier today, I was sitting in a sunny spot at the Flying M Coffeehouse with my dear friends Caitlyn and Sarah.  I was describing to them my failed attempt at making pumpkin cinnamon rolls, and after getting frustrated at the thought of this miserable waste of ingredients I ended my rant with, "...but the maple cream cheese frosting was pretty great." To which they both groaned in that it-sounds-so-good sort of way.  "If you get tired of me talking about my baking, please feel free to tell me to shut up at any time," I said.  Caitlyn replied, "If there's one thing I can listen to all day, it's you describing your baking."  My heart swelled with appreciation, because it's one thing I can't seem to shut up about.  So let me tell you a little more about it.

I was 13 or 14 years old when I made my first batch of cookies by myself.  I was doing them for extra credit in my history class (Mr. Hale was unabashed about giving extra points for sucking up).  My mom, an excellent cook and baker in her own right, was never patient with other's in her kitchen (a trait I've inherited), so it was a big deal that I was allowed to tread on such hollowed ground.  I refused help of any sort, insisting that I do every step myself.  I'd watched my mom do it a million times, I was sure that it would be easy to do.  After following the recipe step by step, I pulled a beautiful batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.  Actually, they were more than beautiful, they looked amazing.  I eagerly took a bite of one, and was mortified to find that this golden, soft, perfect cookie tasted like a hot mess of chocolate and salt.  I put the next batch in the oven, thinking that it was a fluke that they tasted so bad.  The second batch came out just as lovely as the first, but that horrid taste of death was still found in each bite.  My mom went through the recipe step by step with me to see where I messed up, and to my horror and her delight we found where I went wrong: instead of a 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda, I used a half cup.  I was crestfallen, and earned no extra credit.

It was several years before I took a stab at baking again.  I made the occasional batch of cookies or a birthday cake, using mostly boxed mixes.  Like most domestic things, I shirked my cooking duties for other more important things, like staying out all night, spending my money on concert tickets instead of food, and considering a box of Rice-A-Roni eaten straight from the pan a satisfying and well-rounded meal.  But lurking in the shadows of my subconscience  was an apron clad version of myself, standing along side my mom, aunts, and grandma in one of their yellow kitchens watching pie crusts get rolled out, filled with fruit or custard and a healthy dose of love, and baked to perfection.  I was born into a fine line of bakers, and my genes anxiously awaited me to put my intuitive skills to use.  Thanks to my cousin Tori's sugar cookie recipe, I found my calling.  All it took was a batch of Halloween themed sugar cookies that I took to work with me one day on a whim, and ended up with orders to fill for some regular customers of mine at Starbucks.

That was several years ago now, and since there hasn't been a week that's gone by that I haven't made one sweet treat or another.  A few years ago, while living in the Idaho Building in downtown Boise, I decided to make brunch for a couple of our friends.  After a few mimosas and realizing that I had overestimated the amount of food to make (still a problem of mine), those couple of friends started yelling at other friends who were loitering on 8th Street, and before we knew it our apartment was filled with people.  All of them were kind, gracious, and extremely complimentary of my food.  So to help keep my self esteem high, I started having brunches on a regular basis.  The regular attendees have become accustomed to the Braegger-baker way of things, meaning that I am the only one allowed to cook in my kitchen (I don't mind visitors and conversation, but stay the hell away from my stove), and I will cook and bake and serve until my guests are nearing food comas, and then I'll sit down and partake.  Guests are encouraged to bring bacon (we typically go through 5-6 lbs a brunch) and/or beverages, and for the first time this year I allowed one guest in particular bring his extraordinary macaroni and cheese, the first dish served at a brunch I hosted that I didn't make.  Brunch days are by far my happiest days, when my house is filled with my closest friends and I get to feed and nourish and lavish them with attention.  Oh man, those days are the days I crave.

I have been fortunate enough to turn my passion into a micro-business, taking orders from friends and strangers alike.  I've sent cookies all over the country, I've been honored to make wedding cakes, and treats for everything from baby showers to corporate gifts.  It's funny how it works, because my life doesn't always lend itself to having the time or energy to take orders.  During those times, I won't receive any calls.  The moment that I think I'm ready to start up again, without solicitation, my phone will start ringing and the orders roll in.  I'm always so humbled that people want to pay me to do something that I love so much.  Even more fulfilling than taking orders is to surprise my loved ones with treats.  I have this terrible habit of showing up on doorsteps or in workplaces with a little packages filled with treats and love.  They always think I'm doing something nice for them, but the whole truth is that it's doing something for myself.  The days I struggle the most, those are the days I plan my surprise deliveries; I can't explain how or why, but knowing that I'm going to create something for someone I care about to enjoy, well that can get me through just about anything.

I am so grateful to the ladies in my life that have inspired and instructed me to find such joy in my kitchen.  I am so grateful for those who find pleasure in my talent, and hire me to bake on their behalf.  More than anything, I am grateful for my friends and family who are so patient with me while I shove confection after confection down their throats and never complaining about it.  What would I do without your ever expanding stomachs?  Rest assured that each calorie is matched with heartfelt love and affection.  It may not stop diabetes or heart failure, but it's nourishing none-the-less, I promise.

Sincerely,
h.

Thoughts From 15,000 Feet

Dear Readers,

I returned to Boise late last night after spending a week in New York and New Jersey.  I enjoyed a lot of great experiences, and even more important, a lot of great people.  I have a bag full of stories and memories to share, but that will have to wait for another day.  For now, here is a snapshot from my travels last night that I wrote on the plane ride from Minneapolis to Boise.

As I was getting off of the plane in Cincinnati, I watched as an older black woman climbed into an airport courtesy wheelchair.

"How are you, Mrs. White?" Asked the girl who would be helping her.

"Blessed."  Answered Mrs. White.

So certain in her conviction, so quick to answer.  It wasn't religious, pretentious, or annoying.  Rather, it may have been the closest thing to a wholly honest answer to that often inane question that I've ever heard.

It is possible that I took this entire trip to hear that one, valiant word: blessed.

Sincerely,
h.

A Hot, Glittery Mess

Dear Readers,

Not long after I wrote my last post, where I made a commitment to not be depressed and self-deprecating, and to be kind and offer pie to everyone,  life threw me a curve ball and challenged that commitment.  A dear friend of mine, Deana, decided it was her time to leave this party we call life and let us continue on the dancing in her absence.  And I, once again, found myself in a place of contemplation spurred by the sting of heartache and the longing for an answer to that great question: why?

Deana and I worked at Anthropologie together, along with a gaggle of fantastic girls.  Working with all ladies has it's ups and downs, but I made and strengthened some great relationships there. Deana was one of those, and we always had a great time together.  We laughed, all of the time.  She's one of the few and the proud that could match me in my crassness, and my wit would cower in the shadow of hers.  Loren went into the hospital on my last of work at Anthropologie, and knowing that I was greatly distressed, Deana organized a gathering of the great Antho ladies and took me out for a night on the town to help me take my mind off it; funny how it's a night I'll never forget.  We weren't best friends, the ladies in her life that she was closest to are a phenomenal bunch that never cease to impress me.  However, she was a great friend to me, and I think I was to her.  Either way, I'm glad I had her in my life, I'm glad we had a few occasions to dance all night, I'm glad we made dirty jokes, and I'm certainly glad some of her glitter spark rubbed off on me.  As we learned from Robert Frost (or Pony Boy in "The Outsiders"), "Nothing gold can stay."  But it's impossible to get rid of glitter.

So, let me tell you about that week that Deana died.  I had a birthday, a funeral, a wedding, and a tattoo appointment, one right after the other.  Highest of highs and lowest of lows.  My closest of friends, that joyous group of people that are so essential to my heart that it would stop were they to leave, showered me with love and joy and gifts that I didn't deserve on my birthday.  The next day I picked up my sweet kindred spirit Stephanie, and we spent the morning reflecting and laughing and crying, and then joined some of the other beautiful loves of Deana's life for a memorial that was fitting and tragic. Later we sat in the backyard of Deana's house and mingled in that sort of dazed way you do after a tumultuous afternoon, smeared red lipstick on one another and left red kisses for our departed friend.  On Saturday I was overjoyed to be with my family, that amazing Braegger clan that is full of laughter and chatter and gossip and pie.  My cousin Taylor's wedding was beautiful, it was so fun to be a part of it.  Shay and I were charged with playing the music; it was great to have a reason to dance and celebrate.  Finally, Sunday came and after a year of waiting I went to see the amazing Darcy Nutt, who tortured me for several hours, but the end result is a beautiful and perfect scar.

From this week, I learned (again) that tragedy and joy are the most unlikely companions, but hand in hand they walk together.  I guess it makes sense, as their existence is dependent on the other's success.  Thank you, my friends, my family, for sharing in both with me.  If my life has any purpose at all, it has everything to do with you.  Thank you, Deana, for helping me remember all of this.  I hope you've found yourself in disco heaven, and that you'll save a dance for me.

Sincerely,
h.

Love by the Slice

Dear Readers,

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to my Uncle Wally near the fire pit at the hollowed grounds of Banbury Hot Springs. We were discussing my blog, the very one you're currently visiting, and I mentioned that I was working on not being so depressing. In response, he told me what my Grandma Hazel used to say to him when he was depressed: "Usually people are depressed because they're spending too much time thinking about themselves."

This conversation has echoed through my mind several times. My Grandma was and continues to be a very important person to my life and development. She died when I was Lucas's age, a very young 8 years old. Even then I put her on a pedestal, and when I think of her I picture someone filled with nothing but warmth, light, and love. I would love to grow up to be just like her. I suppose that it goes without saying when I hear words of advice that she's given, I listen to them reverently and closely and lock them away safely in my heart. What Wally shared with me has held an extra sort of gravity, and I think it's because it was a message that I particularly needed at this time in my life.

I, just like everybody else, have a lot of reasons to feel sorry for myself. My life has had more than it's share of grief, pain, illness, and misery. I have struggled with clinical depression for the entirety of my adult life, sprinkled with post-partum depression as well as anxiety issues. I have an auto-immune disease that reminds me daily that it's alive and well and doing it's best to make things difficult. Funny, I'm getting upset with myself for listing my complaints like this. I don't wear self-loathing well. For that reason, it was and is hard for me to recognize that I am being selfish when I allow one or the other of the items on my list of despair to bring me down. Once again, I can look to my Grandma Hazel's example for guidance; she spent a great deal of her life battling diabetes. I'm sure her list of struggles in life far exceed my own. However, I don't remember ever hearing her complain. I don't recall a time that she had negative words to say about anybody else. But I do have vivid memories of her patience, her kindness, and her pie, which she shared with whomever walked through her door.

This next week I will have my 33rd birthday. As a gift to myself, I am releasing myself from self-pity, and will replace it with the freedom to perform good works for others. I will allow my mind to rest from it's thoughts of self-doubt and critisism, to leave the job of deprication to others, to find and recognize my strengths and beauty. I will think kind thoughts, say kind words, and practice kind deeds. After all, I am doing no one else (let alone myself) a service of wallowing in guilt, grief, and depression. There's already plenty of that in the world without me adding to it. Most importantly, I will make more pie, and everyone that walks through my door will be offered a piece. I'm not sure that there's a better way to serve love and happiness than by the slice, after all.

Sincerely,
h.

A Window to my Soul

Dear Readers,

This is something I don't normally do, but I wanted to share an entry from my journal with you. I wrote this yesterday after hiking into a beautiful canyon right outside of Bryce Canyon National Park. Please note, there is nothing I could write to express the beauty and majesty of this place I was so fortunate to visit. So here you go, a little window into my soul:

I met God today. As a skeptic and non-believer, it's odd for me to say that. But I know no other name for the beauty I experienced today. Neither man or woman, rather a genderless wall of red cliffs and a rushing stream of cold water, with majestic piness growing in places you wouldn't think fit for a tree.

Memories of building scenery in a mason jar with different colors of sand (that smelled both sweet and putrid at the same time) filled my mind. Remember shaking the jar, erasing the lines and colors and turning the so carefully layered landscaped into a mess of brown nothing?

The wind whispered sweet nothings in my ear of past loves and of future possibilities.

No promises made but one: what was there before my birth will stay around long after my death.

I met God today in nature's cathedral. I said no amens, and it gave me no blessings; but we shared an experience that is now recorded in the stones of the rushing creek and the canals of my memory.

Sincerely,
h.

My Mom: a Mother's Day Tribute

Dear Readers,

Growing up, on more than one occasion I heard the story about my mom being mad at my Grandma Hazel. I can't remember what the argument was about, but my mother's way of showing her frustration at the situation was to go into her bedroom and throw her hairbrush on the bed, and that was the end of it. My sister's and I used to really get a kick out of this story, mainly because when we were upset with our parents or each other we were loud enough that the entire neighborhood knew. Andrea and Kate had their own ways of showing frustration; mine was to play "Waltz in A Minor" by Franz Schubert on the piano as loud and as passionately as I could. I have that song memorized. I'm sure my parents know it note for note as well.

My mom never had to learn such an angry song on the piano because I don't believe she has an angry bone in her body. Patient, kind, loving, pious, she is these things. But never angry, never mean. Her name is Kristie (please refrain from spelling it wrong), and it's with great pleasure that I introduce her to you. Mom is the youngest of the five Braegger children: Jed, Nan, Ruth, and Wally. Besides my dad and sisters and I, there was never a question who the most important people in her life are. I spent countless hours with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins growing up, and still look forward to and relish the time that I get to spend with them. A big reason for this is the example my mother set for me on the importance of family; she is at her happiest when she is surrounded by hers. When someone in the family is struggling, you struggle along side them (and feed them pie). When someone in the family is celebrating, you celebrate along side them. You call them when they are sick, call them when they are well, and of course, you always feed them pie.

As of late, I have struggled with understanding my need to nurture. Ask my friends, I'm obnoxious about needing to take care of them. I have this built in urge to make sure that everyone is okay, that they are fed and their well-being is nothing but tip-top. I called my mom not long ago and asked her if she remembered just when, exactly, I started showing this behavior. As she was silent and thinking for answer, I had visions of my mom, my aunts, and my grandma at family dinners and holidays, busily preparing meals, serving them, and just as the rest of the family was finishing they were just sitting down to quickly eat and then were up again to clear the table and serve dessert. "Oh," I said to my mom, "Wait. This isn't just my instinct. I got it from you, from grandma. All the women in our family are like this!" to which she replied, "It's our culture. It's part of who we are." After that conversation, I've realized that my nurturing instincts are a gift, not a burden. As long as a Braegger lady is around, if there is someone to take care of, by george they will be taken care of! Again, my mom set this example for me. 

I was convinced as a teenager and young adult that I had nothing in common with my mom. That she didn't understand me. However, the moment I had Lucas, I saw my mom in a completely different light. It's true, on the surface, we don't have a lot in common. She listens to Carly Simon, Neil Diamond, and the dreaded Michael Bolton, while I prefer loud classic rock, Radiohead, and sad ambient songs. She has faith without question, a devotion to church that is admirable, and lives her life with quiet and untarnished dignity and integrity; I am a skeptic, have loud opinions, and although I have integrity there is nothing quiet about it. Like I said, once I had Lucas I was able to see a different side of my mom. I'm having a hard time coming up with a good way to explain it, but I understand now why she is overprotective of my (as she coined it) tender heart. I understand why there are times that it's more important to be a parent than a friend to your children. I understand that there is validity to taking a hot bath when you have a problem, that more often than not if you go to the bathroom it will take care of your tummy ache, and if you just go to sleep when you wake up things won't seem so bad.

My mom has been by my side through thirteen surgeries. After my last, about two years ago, as I laid in my hospital bed recovering from my appendectomy, I would come in and out of my morphine stupor and my mom was just sitting in the dark and quiet room by my side. I told her she could turn on the tv, that she didn't just have to sit there. She said to me, "One day, if Lucas is ever sick, you won't need to do anything but just sit by his side and make sure he's okay." Although I haven't had this experience with Lucas, I remembered those words last Mother's Day as I held Loren's hand and watched him sleep. As usual, she was right.

There aren't words good or kind enough in the english vocabulary to describe my sweet mother. She is, without question, one of the best people I know. I am proud of any and every trait she passed down to me. My dad, my sisters and I are some of the luckiest people on the planet to have such a gracious and caring individual in our lives. So it is with great sentiment, awe, and love that I wish my mom, Kristie Badger, the happiest of mother's days.

I love you Mom, and am grateful and humbled to be your daughter.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S. It was me that destroyed your Michael Bolton "Time, Love, and Tenderness" cassette tape. But I'm not apologizing, because it was awful. I will, however, replace it. xoxo

What's This Call, This Sperit?

Dear Readers,

For those of you who have been devoted readers from the beginning, you may recall me speaking of John Steinbeck a time or two. If you haven't guessed, his books are held very near and dear to my heart. I cling to his stories the way most do to scripture. I am his disciple. Last night I embarked on my annual reading and review of his Pulitzer Prize (as well as the catalyst for his Nobel Prize) winning classic, "The Grapes of Wrath". Although I would have to say that "East of Eden" is my favorite, most prized piece of literature in my vast collection, "The Grapes of Wrath" is in my top five. Written by a very driven 37 year old Steinbeck, he started and finished this very important transcript of American history and welfare in 4 short months. As a result, laws were made and lives were saved. Not many authors have such bragging rights.

Not to completely change subjects, but I had an experience today that shook me up a bit. One of my officemates is a lovely women named Bonnie. She's been an educator her entire life, and is passionate about teaching. After teaching elementary school for years, she retired only to be snatched up by Northwest Lineman College to teach our Training Specialists the art of instruction. We haven't worked in the same space for long, none-the-less she is a warm and loving person and someone I'm proud to call a friend. It was shocking and awful today as another coworker and friend of mine, Jennifer, and I witnessed Bonnie answer the phone to receive the tragic news that her husband had a heart attack, and was in a coma as a result. Bonnie was frantic (naturally), and Jennifer and I scurried to her aid, helped her gather her things and came up with a quick plan to get her to the hospital. Soon we found ourselves in the waiting room of the ICU, wanting to make sure that Bonnie was okay and to offer any support we could. The room was filled with coworkers and friends of her husband, and soon their grown children came as well, and we made our exit.

Last year at this time, you would find me loitering in waiting rooms on the 5th floor at St. Al's hospital, usually accomponied by one or the other of Loren's parents. A lot of reading, writing, and conversation transpired in those waiting rooms. What an apt name, because wait we did. Wait till Loren wakes. Wait till Loren goes home. Wait till the sun is shining and the grass is green and the flowers are blooming. Eventually there was nothing left to wait for. Today, sitting in a different hospital, on a different floor, in a different waiting room, the old anxiety surfaced, and my heart broke for Bonnie, knowing all the waiting she has in front of her. Regardless of the outcome, that inbetween time when you flounder in the abyss of ignorance, it's just so helpless and awful. It's times like that I miss faith. Or maybe crave it. I'm not sure, all I know is that I don't have it. I see things in such a black and white nature, I can't imagine holding an unknown force responsible for the well-being of myself or those that live in my heart. I envy those who can.

It is with that big faithless void that resides in me that I bring this conversation back around to John Steinbeck and "The Grapes of Wrath". Last night, I read some of my favorite paragraphs ever written. Tom Joad comes upon an ex-preacher named Casy, and eventullly their conversation is turned to the reasons why Casy left his preaching days behind. He says it better than I can explain:

"Casy spoke again, and his voice rang with pain and confusion. "I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' An' I says, 'Don't you love Jesus?' Well, I though an' thought, an' finally I says, 'No, I don't know nobody name' Jesus. I know a bunch of stories, but I only love people. An' sometimes I love em' fit to bust, an' I want to make 'em happy, so I been preachin' somepin I though would make 'em happy.' ...I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road, I figgered, 'Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit -- the human sperit -- the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent -- I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it."

Now, this is the abridged version of the conversation, but I hope the point came across. Steinbeck brings up this idea again and again in his writings. That we are connected as humans, that our souls should dictate our actions, not our beliefs. That we are bound to each other by love and grace, but not by religious rederic. That we are responsible for ourselves, our choices, our actions, and not sinners that will be brought to justice by a higher being. This idea, the notion of huministic accountibility, is probably the closest thing to faith that I've found. I like the idea that we share a common soul, that we suffer and experience joy together. The tides rise and fall for all of us, and there's not a lot of emotion that hasn't been experienced by each of us.

With that in mind, I bring my thoughts back to Bonnie, her husband, and her family. If this idea is true, if we do share one giant soul, than I offer her what little light and love is in my share. I hope the waiting isn't long, and that her family is on the road to recovery soon. As for the rest of you, feel free to take parts of that as well. In turn, I offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to the many that have shared their love with me.

Sincerely,
h.