Holding His Hand

When I was five, I flew all by myself to Cincinnati to be with my grandparents for Spring Break. It was one of the most magical weeks of my childhood. That time, one on one with my grandparents was a wonderful fanciful treat. I stayed in a room decorated just for me, we visited the zoo, I had my hair done at my grandmother's salon, they showered me with gifts and showed me off to friends. Every night, during cocktail hour, they let me use their foyer as a kind of stage where I performed selections from Annie and Fiddler on the Roof with great enthusiasm. If they were anything but enthralled, I never knew. I must have come back spoiled rotten, my poor parents.

When I was six, I wanted to play the flute. More than anything. My cousins, older beautiful, sophisticated fourth and fifth graders that they were, both played an instrument and I wanted to be just like them. My grandparents paid for the rental. My hands were tiny; too small to make the first crucial reach of the flute's keys. I wouldn't figure out breath support for another four years and got light headed every time I touched the thing. I quit.

When I was seven, I wanted to play the piano. My parents had purchased an antique full upright and I'd been tinkering on it, plunking out commercial jingles and Rogers and Hammerstein melodies by ear. I wanted lessons. My grandparents offered to pay the month or two they figured I would stick to it. I took private lessons until I was seventeen. They ended up paying for five years of private voice lessons too.

When I was 11, I got braces. I have a mouth like a bowling alley. Tiny, narrow jaw; great big horse teeth. I had two oral surgeries, countless extractions but after years of pain and inconvenience, I had a beautiful smile, financed by my grandparents.

When I was 19, I became a single mother. My first husband had walked out seven months earlier. My daughter and I had nothing. My grandparents were part of the network of people making sure she had a good start. Thanks to them, she had tiny pink sleepers, a lovely cozy cradle, a carseat, a swing.

When I was 31, Cowboy had been hospitalized and out of work a month. My cupboards were bare. I went to sleep one night knowing I had no means of feeding my children the next week. My grandfather's 5:00AM phone call woke me. He was worried for us and was sending grocery money.

I said goodbye to my grandmother the next spring. Actually, I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. I was too blocked to write and by the time I had the courage, she'd lost the ability to understand. I spoke at her wake and in a cracking voice, talked for all of her grandchildren about her propensity for fulfilling wishes and rewarding hard work. I still think of her and thank her in my dreams.

When I was 35, I introduced my children and husband to my grandfather. I looked forward to that moment for months and fussed about it almost as long. This man, opinionated and sometimes dysfunctional as he is, has been so many things to me and I owe him so much. I couldn't wait for my family to meet him and him to meet them. I wanted him to see what bright, intelligent children they are and to know that he influenced the way I raise them. To hear him say I was doing well was like the blessing of heaven.

When I was 36, I needed a surgery to save my life. Giving me the money as a gift would have been inappropriate. I needed to demonstrate I had the strength to walk the path I was setting. It was a very big investment; one I needed to make in myself. My grandfather offered to pay half only if I came up with the other half on my own. I wanted it and I found a way. My grandfather helped me save my life.

They are moving my grandfather to Hospice this week. At 96 the man who used to walk or swim at least two miles a day can no longer walk across a room. I wish I could carry him. The man who attended weekly concerts and treasured lively conversation has been devastated at the loss of his hearing; even the best hearing aid a poor substitute. I wish he could hear through my ears. His eyesight is fading, I wish he could see through mine. These are the quality of life issues, there are others, much more serious that are shortening his time. If I could give him more time in comfort, I would. Since I can't, I can only offer compassion and hope I get there in time to say goodbye.

I owe him so much that 'thank you' seems lame. There's so much I want to say that every thing I start seems insipid. He and Grandma talked about holding my hand when I was a baby. I guess, I'll start by holding his hand and hope the words come. If I can't tell him how I feel, at least I can say goodbye the same way I said hello.

Bucka's Cocoa Log

I've been talking about it for years. Wondrous, just sweet enough miracle out of my grandmother's kitchen. Maybe it was the way my mom and aunt sighed in reverence when it was presented, but Bucka's cocoa log has always seemed like pinnacle Christmas treat in my rather eccentric head. I searched every speciality bakery in Denver looking for its like, with delicious result but never quite finding its equal. Mom repeatedly told me making it isn't that hard, I could do it. I finally decided to make it the attempt. With help. I did my best to recruit my coworker Julia-- wondrous expert armature baker that she is. Julia had family obligations (two days before Christmas? imagine that!) so I was on my own.

As you know, my dad faxed me a copy of the recipe card which my grandmother clearly typed in a manual. Grandma, who we called Bucka for reasons nobody remembers left a whole box of incredible recipes from a time when nobody cared about carbs and the A1c didn't exist. Kinda hope nothing critical is lost under that particularly large black splotch on the second page.




As I shopped for the supplies yesterday, I kept hoping maybe Bucka's good spirit would stand at my shoulder as I mixed, whisked and folded, encouraging me. More likely, her real spirit would stand at my shoulder telling me "you know what's the matter with YOU?" That was really more her style. Let's face it, the lady didn't really get pleasant until her dementia was so bad she couldn't remember who we were. But.. I digress.

Yesterday, after the three lasagnas were put bed, I ran out of excuses and knuckled down.

Separate eggs? Ooooh dear. I use Egg Beaters, for Pete's sake. After one failure, I managed to separate all five. Beat whites into stiff peaks? I live in Colorado, high altitude and stiff egg whites don't mix. The only stiff peaks here have ski runs on them (oh STOP, get your minds out of the gutter!). I bravely pressed on. Kitchen Aid on high and whaddya know? Peaks are stiff!

Wait, what? Grease a pan, press wax paper into it and grease the wax paper? This seems excessive. Surely Pam will do, right? My 'this seems like enough' cooking/baking attitude kicked in.

Soon, I had a beautiful beige bowl of fluffy stuff ready to spread on the wax paper. Popped into the oven, fifteen nervous minutes and two phone calls to my mom and.....!

Fail.

The directions said to turn the cake out onto a towel sprinkled with powdered sugar. 1) The cake wasn't fully cooked (as I should have noticed from the absence of browned edges) and 2) I tried to actually turn the unsupported pan over, like a jackass. A gooey chocolaty mess slid, sort of 'glopped' out onto the towel. Cheryl declared it a delicious gooey mess but you can't spread fudge frosting on a gooey... oh whatever! I started over.

More separating, peaking and folding. Beautiful beigy fluffiness ready for the pan. The properly prepared pan. I took no chances: GREASE, not Pam! After more consultation with mom, I cut a piece of cardboard, covered it with a towel, sprinkled that with powered sugar annnnnd! Successful flipping! Nervous but successful rolling followed, whipping the cream, more rolling and finally...

Bucka's Fudge Butter cream Frosting


Personally, if there were no other foods but this stuff, that'd be ok. Amanda says that instead of a wedding cake, she wants a cake made entirely of Bucka's Fudge Butter cream Frosting. Three tiers, please. It's orgasmic, seriously. If you're sitting on your couch eating Betty Crocker frosting from the tub, shame on you. Not because you're eating frosting, because you're eating crap frosting. This is a ridiculously easy recipe; I'm embarrassed to have used packaged frosting up to now. For the size of cake, it spreads a little thin so just to be careful (and to account for the mysterious disappearance of at least half the first batch, possibly related to all the fingers being sucked in my household), I made two batches.

I'm a great cook, but my presentation generally needs a little something (read as, my food is often ugly but delightful). I knew -- I hope-- that you'd want a picture anyway so.. TADAH! my rather messy but INCREDIBLY delicious Bucka's Cocoa Log

You know you want the recipe. What follows is as near a Bucka-to-English translation as I can manage. There are some things that don't come across easily. For instance, the recipe calls for a 'moderate' oven. No idea what the hell that means. Also, the word 'carefully'' is used A LOT when actually combining the cake ingredients so... yeah. Be careful.

Merry Christmas!

Bucka's Cocoa Log (Bunche Noel, Yule Log, Damn Awesome cake)

Cake:

• 5 eggs, separated
• 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
• 2 tablespoons cocoa
• 3 tablespoons cake floor
• 1 teaspoon real vanilla
• 1 cup heavy whipping cream

Pre-heat 'moderate' oven to 375F. Grease a 10"x15" jelly roll pan. Line pan with wax paper, grease the wax. DO THIS, do not use Pam.

Mix sifted cocoa, flour and 1/4 cup sugar into a small bowl. Set aside.

In a small bowl, beat egg yolks until they are thick and lemon colored. Add vanilla and 1/4 cup sugar gradually. In a mixer bowl, using the whisk attachment, beat egg whites to stiff peaks. Beat one cup of sugar into egg white mixture. Fold egg yolk mixture carefully into white. Fold sifted cocoa, flour and sugar mixture gradually in with the other ingredients.

Spread cake mixture into jelly roll pan. Bake at 375 for 15 minutes or until the edges brown very lightly. (Christy's note: avoid the urge to check on the cake, even closing the oven door can cause this thing to fall)

Cut a piece of cardboard slightly larger than the jelly roll pan. Cover with a large tea towel. Sprinkle tea towel with powdered sugar.

Once the cake is out of the over, loosen the edges, then place towel covered cardboard sugar-side down on top of the pan, gently turn over. Cut off crisp edges, then roll cake up with the towel. Allow it to cool at least 30 - 45 minutes rolled up inside the towel.

While cake is cooling, in a chilled bowl, whisk whipped cream until frothy and make the frosting.

Fudge Butter cream Frosting

• 2 cups confectioner's sugar
• 1/3 cup cocoa
• 1/4 cup butter, softened
• dash of salt
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 4 tablespoons light cream (you can use whipping cream from the cake ingredients if you like)

Cream softened butter and 1 cup sifted confectioner's sugar thoroughly. Sift remaining cup sugar, cocoa and dash of salt together. Work these ingredients into creamed mixture alternating with cream and vanilla. If frosting is too stiff to spread, you may add a small amount of cream.

Unroll cooled cake and gently spread cake with whipped cream. Lightly re roll and chill for 30 minutes. Transfer cooled cake to your platter, spread with fudge frosting. For authentic 'log look' it's best not to smooth the frosting. Tool marks are a good thing. If desired, garnish with chocolate candies, maraschino cherries or mint leaves. Keep well chilled and covered.

Serves 8