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Personal Journal Reflecting On Aging
June 17 | June 18
June 17: Adventures in Baking
After our usual Sunday morning breakfast out, we returned home where I was informed that I was to bake a cake for our evening meal. This kind of request isn't unusual at our house. I, like most retirees, decided some time ago that it was time to try my hand at baking. Not just anything, but those things that the wife had declared unhealthy for me, such as pie, cake, cookies and other pleasures of life.
One of the first things I found out was that almost everything is baked at 350 degrees F. I also found out that this doesn't mean a thing if you don't take it out of the oven on time. Another discovery was that those in charge of recording recipes have a secret code that is only understood by fellow bakers.
Have you any idea how many hours I have spent in all of the grocery stores in town trying to find "Zest of Lemon"? Finally in desperation I checked the computer to see exactly what "Zest" meant. As you domestic type knows, it means "The outermost part of the rind of an orange or lemon."
When one recipe called for "Glycerin." I knew they had to be kidding. Even I know that they use glycerin in making dynamite. Not to be outsmarted, I set out to find a supply of glycerin primarily out of curiosity. Not one of the grocery stores I checked had any. At least not where I was looking. In desperation I tried the drug store and after stooping to asking a clerk, which is against my manly instincts, I found a 4 oz. container of it. Not cheap, but artisans do not flinch at the cost of necessities. Not until I reached home did I read the label.
Warning: Keep out of the reach of children. In case of accidental ingestion, seek professional assistance or contact a poison control center immediately. For external use only.
I don't know about you, but I'm not going to put any of this stuff in my confectionery.
I always thought butter was butter, but not so. I've seen it made. I've also seen the professionals add salt to the butter when it was being made. This, I suppose, is reason enough for one of my first recipes to call for "Salt free butter." There must be a heck of a demand for it because I got the last pound on the shelf. I thought for a while I'd have to settle for some of that "I can't believe it's not butter" stuff. With all of the substitutes on the market it makes you wonder if the cow still has a place in our society.
My father's day cake turned out pretty much like the box said it would and my job of frosting it turned out pretty much like the can said it would. I'm giving serious thought to trying to make a cake from scratch. Do you think the makings are still available?
June 18: Wash Day
Most retired people of my age will recall that Mondays are washdays. For some mysterious reason this trend has carried over into our weekly routine. Some of us, especially the women, can still remember the old scrub boards and the multitude of different kinds of washing machines that followed. That was when doing the wash was the work -- the modern day housewife insists that it still is.
The housewife of years gone by had to make trips to the pump in the back yard to fetch the necessary wash water. This was chore enough, but then it had to be heated on the kitchen stove and eventually hauled to the washing tub or washing machine.
You didn't reach for a plastic jug of detergent but rather for a bar of homemade soap. I can't really recall just how it was made but it involved using the fat obtained from butchering a hog of calf and the use of lye. A far cry from what we call soap today.
The washing machine, if you were lucky enough to have one, was powered by a push-pull lever and good old arm power, a gasoline engine or by an electric motor. The ingenuity of our forefathers was uncanny.
The models we have today are so simple that even an average husband can operate them. Just a few simple questions to be answered by pushing the appropriate buttons. How full do you want the tub? Hot, warm or cold water? Standard cycles that are easily ignored? Where do you want the dirty water to go? These are easy questions for a man. Full, warm, standard and to waste.
The real art of doing a wash is in loading of the machine. You can only stuff so much in a machine so that isn't a problem. It is what you stuff that creates the problem with the better half if you get caught doing the wash.
When I wash my hunting gear, little is said and the operation is never checked on. She knows I'll dump everything into the machine at one time and she really doesn't care what it looks like when I take it out.
Let me do a regular wash, if there is such a thing, she just can't leave me alone. I see absolutely no reason why my white skivvies can't be washed with my black socks. What if the skivvies turn out to be a pale gray? I can't remember ever taking my pants off in a public place where someone might criticize the color of my skivvies. Even when you have a physical, they let you undress and dress in private.
I have concluded that what the women really hate about doing the laundry is the folding. I still can't see any need in folding skivvies or handkerchiefs. It is rather nice to roll the socks up into balls. It lets you know how many socks the washing machine ate. When the spouse is gone for a few days I manage to dress right out of the dryer or out of a basket when the dryer over flows.
An efficiency suggestion is that you remove your entire wardrobe when doing the laundry and stuff it into the washing machine in an effort to leave the laundry chute entirely empty at the end of the day. To date I haven't had the meter maid walk in on me. I hope you have the same luck.
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