Bonnie's Broken Arm: A Christmas Miracle

My favorite doll, Bonnie, is dressed in her Christmas finery today as she sits in a chair by the fireplace.

When I was a little girl I had a favorite doll named Bonnie. Bonnie came with a polka dot sundress and bonnet. I don't remember ever dressing her up, but I'm sure I did. I played with her constantly. Bonnie was all rubber, which I much preferred to the china dolls my sisters had because I didn't have to worry about her chipping or breaking. Mine was rubber. Her round rubber face had hair that was sculpted into the head. It would always be perfect, never falling out or getting tangled or frizzy.

Bonnie was similar to the Betsy Wetsy of those days. I could feed her a bottle of water, but I'd better be holding her over the sink because the water ran straight through! Her sweet blue eyes closed when I tilted her back. If I squeezed her she made a plaintive bleet. It wasn't much of a cry, but it worked for me. I thought she was wonderful.

One day, as I was playing with her, I noticed her arm had a split in the crease of her elbow. I wiggled it back and forth to get a closer look. And pretty soon the little split was a big split. My dad was a doctor, but he was also a great fix-it man. I waited for him to come home from work so I could show him Bonnie's broken arm. I was confident he would make her all better.

He studied the arm carefully and proclaimed it broken. "Can you fix it?" I inquired hopefully?

"She may need to go to the doll hospital, but I can put her arm in a cast." Dad took my doll and wrapped medical tape around her arm from shoulder to wrist. I was a little disappointed that he couldn't make her all better, but by the next morning, I had accepted Bonnie's fate and was back to playing  with her.

As Christmas drew near I turned to Santa. Maybe Santa could fix Bonnie's arm. Each night I went to bed wondering if Santa would come through. Would my Bonnie's arm get better?

Christmas morning arrived and I waited with my sisters at the top of the stairs while Dad went downstairs and turned on the Christmas lights. When he gave the signal we all traipsed downstairs. I spied my stocking hanging by the fireplace overflowing with goodies. But my eyes widened when I saw the high chair next to it with Bonnie sitting there. The tape was gone from her arm and it was all better!

Christmas miracles come in all shapes and sizes. For me it came in the form of a doll whose arm, once broken, was now whole.

Epic Fail; Christmas Style

Sometimes the "Voice of Experience" whispers in your ear. Other times it shouts "NOOOOOOOO!" while jumping up and down with lights and sirens flashing  Sadly, either way, some of us never hear that Voice. This was one of those weeks.

THE PLAN
It started when I saw the Cake Pan in Wal-Mart. I wasn't even looking for it, but there it was, looking so cute and perfect. I was there to buy ingredients for cookies I was baking for a bake sale and as I eyed the pan I thought how well that cake would sell.

So I bought the pan.

THE HISTORY
Here's the thing. I have a history with cakes.

Before Larry and I were married I wanted to impress him with a chocolate birthday cake made from scratch. I found a recipe, and followed it faithfully, right down to separating the eggs. I mixed the dry ingredients, beat the wet ingredients, and combined them in the bowl. The final step was to stiffly beat the egg whites and fold them into the cake batter. I eyed the yolks in the bowl on the counter. Hmm. I must have put in the egg whites instead of the yolks when mixing the wet ingredients. Oh well, I thought. Let's see if it makes a difference.

It does.

The final product could have been patented for construction material. No exaggeration. Larry and I took the 1/2" thick block outside and threw it against the brick wall to see if it would break. The brick chipped. The cake stood strong. Not a nick in sight.

Then there was the cake I made for a neighbor's anniversary. Their children had asked me if I would help them surprise their parents. The day of the party arrived and we made the cake together. All was well until I tried to get it out of the pan. It wouldn't come out. Nothing could prod it loose. First we were frustrated, and then we just started giggling. I cut a slice out and removed the rest of the cake. We pieced it together, iced it, and the kids carried it home with a story to tell.

Since then, it's been sheet cakes and angel food cakes in a two-piece tube pan.

THE DREAM
As I looked at the pan, I wasn't hearing the whispers. I wasn't hearing the shouts or the sirens or seeing the flashing lights. I was seeing..... I don't know what I was seeing.

The dream...

As I look at this picture all I see is a pretty cake. The obvious part glaring at me, that I am oblivious to, is all the angles and edges! I didn't pay any attention to that until I went to grease it and dust it with flour. That's when I first realized I may be in trouble.

I read the recipe and gathered the ingredients. I bought fresh extract and ground the almonds. I melted the butter and blended the flour, sugar and baking soda. I poured it into the pan and baked it to perfection! The cake came out beautifully! Gorgeous color. Delightful texture. I was feeling most pleased...

THE REALITY
...Until I flipped it over onto the cooling rack. It wouldn't come out of the pan! I tried everything. I reheated it to be sure it was loose from the bottom. We pounded, and shook and pried....nothing. Finally I Googled "How to get a cake loose from a pan". In an instant there was the answer! (Seriously, what did we ever do without GOOGLE?)  Get a dishcloth wet and wring it out. The temperature doesn't matter. Wrap the cloth around the cake base....( um,  you see all the edges!) and shake. And it worked.

Sort of.

EPIC FAIL!

The only thing harder than getting the cake out of the pan was washing it. I removed all that I could and then soaked the pan overnight. The next day I tried washing it. AGAIN---ALL THOSE EDGES!!! I brushed, I sponged, I scraped with a fingernail, I used toothpicks. Every last soggy crumb clung tenaciously to the surface of the pan.

THE HOPE
One friend comforted me with the observation that I am a very optimistic baker. I keep trying, in spite of the obvious. Some would say I am naïve, even crazy to think I can do it. I guess in my world, Hope just springs eternal.

But maybe sometimes Hope and Being Crazy are more closely related than I like to believe.

By the way, the cake tasted great and did not go to waste. Now I know how the TRIFLE came to be.

The Children's Christmas Pageant

It's been a busy several weeks with our final RV trip, a trip to Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving and the subsequent preparations for Christmas. I've had so little time to write. However, I decided to share with you one recent Christmas memory. It is from Christmas 2012 when we went to the Christmas Eve service with our daughter's family in Iowa. The children presented their program as we looked on with delight, and a good bit of concealed, but adoring laughter. It is a very fond memory for me, and since we are in the midst of grand adult Christmas cantatas, school holiday programs, and children's church pageants, I wanted to share this with you. I wish all grandparents that are able to see their grandchildren perform, and parents who want everything to go perfectly for their young ones revel in the moment when the halo fails to sit where it belongs, and the star-struck ones soldier on holding fast to their 'pink kitty'. For the story of the Nativity doesn't celebrate the perfection in our lives. It celebrates the night when nothing was going right for Mary and Joseph, but in the end our lives were made perfect. Merry Christmas.

The Littlest Angel; a Christmas Story

The children's choir walked up the center aisle of the church, tallest ones leading, followed by the smaller ones. The procession stopped at the front of the church, off to the side of the manger scene. Moms, dads and grandparents strained to see their little ones as they prepared to sing the songs that went with the Christmas pageant. The voluminous old white choir gowns that passed for angel costumes had seen many pageants over the years. 

The littlest angel stood in the front row, her head just shoulder height to the other 'angels' in the choir. Her long locks draped over the shoulder of her white angel gown that was several sizes too big and reached nearly to her shoes. Her brother, a full head and shoulder taller than her, stood on one side, while the older children stood around them. Tinsel garland halos encircled their heads.

A chorus of young voices rang clear as they sang the first song. "O come all ye faithful..." sang her brother earnestly. His head bobbed up and down as he emphasized each syllable. And with each syllable, his halo dipped further and further across his brow. He reached up to steady it and push it back in place. 

The littlest angel sang not a word, but looked silently out at the congregation clutching her old pink kitty, the one concession her mother made as she talked her into joining the other children in the angel choir. Her little fist wrapped around it's neck clutching it to her. 'Meow' would not have lived long had he had air in his lungs instead of stuffing. Not with that grip. 

The next song began. She moved not a muscle, except her eyes, which shifted from left to right searching out anyone who would come rescue her. As her eyes moved back and forth they reminded her mother of the eyes on the black and white cat clock she'd seen in cartoons. In the congregation, her grandparents sat grinning proudly from ear to ear as they watched their adorable grandchildren. 

The littlest angel looked down at the floor. Her halo slipped over her face and dropped to the ground. Only her head moved as she looked back up. A boy sitting on the step in front of her picked up the garland and passed it to her brother. Matter-of-factly, and oblivious of the people looking on, he dutifully took the garland, turned to his sister and began to arrange it on her head. The billowing sleeve of his robe draped over her face as he patted it into place. 

In the congregation, the grandparents sat hiding their laughter as they watched the two, coping with the dilemma of costumes, songs, and propriety, but their shaking shoulders gave them away. 

The third song began. The halo slipped down. The littlest angel did not move. The older brother picked it up and turned to his sister. As the rest of the choir sang, they faced each other, she looking up at him trusting him to fix everything. He shaped the garland, arranged it on her head, studied his work, adjusted the halo, and patted it into place, again. Pink kitty dangled limply at her side, but as long as he was there, and her brother took care of her, she could make it through the show. 

And the grandparents wiped their eyes, stilled their shoulders, and beamed at their grandchildren. For what is a Christmas pageant without a littlest angel, and her big brother to look after her.