I Brake for Life
Dawn arrived in strands of gold and silver on June 6, 2021. A warm morning burgeoned into one of those days in late spring when Wisconsin weather attempts to move up the date of the summer equinox. With my younger brother turning sixty that day we had decided to host a backyard bash in his honor. He had given us the list of family and friends, extensive but, agonizingly for him, not all inclusive. He is so personable, so loving, that I think he knows half the state of Wisconsin, not to mention parts south, east, and west of the state, reaching as far as the coasts. Speaking of which, both of my children flew in, from Seattle and Manhattan, in order to celebrate their favorite uncle. There were of course a few RSVP’s expressing regret, but each one was accompanied by the warmest well wishes for a great guy.
Thanks to my children and a group of my friends, some long time, some newer, who have come to be known as my “posse,” the decorations, the activities, and the food were a smash hit. Of course, my husband deserves the nod as the grill guru, generating enough of his so-called “burnt offerings” to feed a crowd of around fifty. The glorious spread was bejeweled with appetizers, salads, and side dishes courtesy of my friends. My youngest displayed her culinary chops with an excellent jambalaya and a gluten-free crisp created with rhubarb fresh from the garden. My oldest child presided as resident mixologist, making St. Germaine Spritzers, aka- “hummingbirds,” for all takers. My main job in the whole endeavor had been last minute cleaning and the baking of birthday cakes — that, and running about doing my best impression of a headless chicken.
Most of my brother’s longtime friends enjoy his fascination with collecting and restoring automobiles from the last century. Naturally that meant the parking lane on the opposite side of the boulevard where I live resembled a car show. My brother brought his 1968 Chevrolet Impala Deluxe. It was my mother’s last car. My dad had saved it for Dave until he was old enough to drive. MARGEE (as the car is dubbed on the collector plate), was named for my mom, and is, like her, not only a classic but a class act through and through. My posse and I went for a ride in one of my dream cars- a mid-1960s Ford Mustang, bright red no less, belonging to Jeff, one of Dave’s oldest friends — a brother of another mother.
Dave loves to sing. In fact years ago he had been a Karaoke King of sorts. So we had purchased a bluetooth capable mic with a built in speaker and downloaded a corresponding music app. My brother donned his Blue Suede Shoes, rocking that beloved hit in a way that would make Elvis smile. Other brave souls took their turn. My friend Marjie’s gentle rendition of Here Comes the Sun captured the mood of the day, and even more so the pent up need we all had for a chance to get back to simple, carefree times enjoyed among family and friends. With her song, as well as with her birthday present discovered later in the gift opening, her proffered treasures hit the mark. She had given Dave an entirely braille edition of a Playboy Magazine from 1993. I have never seen my baby brother laugh that hard. His one wish that day, that new and old acquaintances at the party, all of whom he loved, would mingle and get to know each other, was honored by all. I think it was the best party I have ever had the pleasure to throw, and you would know just how much that means if you had been to my wedding.
This delightful event did not happen on the fly, however. I spent weeks preparing my home for my children’s homecoming and the arrival of around fifty party guests. Our family room, neglected when we moved into our house seventeen years earlier, got a makeover, including a “peel” (stripping down wallpaper) and a “facelift” (fresh paint in a new color scheme). Deep cleaning one room at a time in the weeks leading up to the party revealed many an interesting thing my cats have hidden as well as all the ingenious places they found to do so. Of course, Toulouse and Marie supervised tirelessly from the sunporch window as I planted and weeded, readying my gardens in the backyard for the three large tents that would provide comfortable seating areas for guests at the party.
Most auspicious of all the preparations for the great day and the arrival of my offspring was the final tear-down of the last remnants of my home office. I delivered contractor bags full of refuse and recycling to the curb. I made multiple trips to Goodwill. I met with a former colleague to make sure valuable resources from my time serving children found a good home where their utility would continue to be of service.
Prior to the party, Pacific Northwest child descended on the remaining shapeless landscape with the air of a home-stylist fairy godmother and a sense of purpose straight out of the first chapter of Genesis. I gave Anjuli carte blanche, busying myself baking the layers for three ten inch layer cakes. I was making a strawberry cake and a chocolate cake for David’s party but had also agreed to make the strawberry birthday cake for a dear friend’s 50th birthday party the day before our own celebration. By nightfall of Anjuli’s first day of creation not a scintilla of evidence remained that a law office had ever existed in my home for 14 years. Instead a warm, inviting man-cave had emerged.
In the midst of all this activity I was concluding an important step toward finalizing the saga of a nearly forty year career. A simple, one-page petition to relinquish my law license needed to get signed, notarized, and sent off to the State Bar. That simple page seemed so small to represent decades of struggles and triumphs. Poignant memory watched arm in arm with a sigh of relief as I put the completed document in the envelope, and placed it on the ledge with the outgoing mail. My daughter spotted it sitting there amidst bills and such. She declared it to be a momentous occasion, insisting that she and Joe come along, and that her sister participate electronically since she wouldn’t get in until the next day, as we delivered it to the local post office.
I share all of this, dear readers, to say that I know I have been AWOL for a few months. I have not forsaken my writing. In fact, I attend to my journal daily as a discipline. A pause in my writing projects was needed to devote time to important people and events in my life. Even after the party was over, its remains cleaned up and packed away, the leftovers repurposed and finished off, I needed time with my children who live so far away. My moments in person with them are more precious to me than ever. I am grateful for the technology, but my arms about them cannot be replaced by a two dimensional image on my phone.
While she was still home, my oldest consulted with me on décor for the family room, and of course generated spirited and interesting discussions. My youngest shared generously of her myriad talents. After her sister flew back to Manhattan, Anjuli and I ventured to Illinois to see the newest member of the family, her cousin’s baby girl.
At Anjuli’s urging I showed her the Ice Age Trail of which I had written at the end of last year. Hiking it early one morning, we found the forest and lake were decked out in the lush finery of late spring riding the crest toward summer. Our conversation was deep as the woodlands and fresh as the sweet smell of the open meadows and reclaimed fields. We reverently explored an old cemetery, wondering, as a couple writers would, at the stories beneath the stones.
“Think of me when the snow hits the pines.”
I am awash with gratitude for all this year has meant so far. I am reminded that I am married to a wonderful, giving man. My children have grown into people I respect, who are generous and gracious with others. My friends, new and old, are true and dear and evergreen as the pines of the Ice Age Trail. Seasons of life must not be rushed through, but cherished in the moment to the last drop like fine wine. If doing so means braking and pulling over, as if to watch the sunset, then I will take that time. I know those last rays carry the promise of a new dawn of fresh possibilities after a good rest. As a writer I need to live life in the present to keep my pantry full of experiences from which to concoct tales to tell. The adventure in the next chapter of my story awaits. This is not the end. It is just the beginning…
M. M. Kiehn’s Strawberry Cake
When I was asked to make the strawberry layer cake for my friend’s fiftieth birthday party, I had not ever made a strawberry flavored cake before. So I did my research, experimenting until I found the combination that was just right, incorporating techniques I remember from my mother that achieved a better cake. This season in my life, so full of changes, has been like trying to find the right recipe. At times it has been a search for just the right ingredients in the correct combination. On more than a few occasions it has been more like whipping something up on the fly with what there is on hand. I know that these last few months of preparing for my children’s visit and the celebration of my brother there has been a bit of both.
STRAWBERRY LAYER CAKE (will yield 2 layer, 9 inch cake)
Ingredients:
2 cups white sugar
1- 3 oz. package of strawberry gelatin (not sugar free)
1.5 sticks butter, softened
¼ cup of neutral oil like sunflower oil
4 eggs, room temperature and separated
2 ¾ cups sifted cake flour
2 ½ teaspoons baking powder
¾ teaspoon of salt
Directions: Preheat oven to 350⁰ Fahrenheit
Spray two, 9-inch round cake pans with PAM or similar product. Then, line with a round of wax paper, spray that liner and flour pan lightly.
Measure and make sure to sift the cake flour into a bowl, then measure again into another bowl. Whisk into the flour the baking powder and salt. Set aside.
Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the dry package of gelatin and again beat until fluffy. Add the egg yolks and beat until fully combined, and light and fluffy. Scrape the bowl periodically throughout to ensure proper incorporation of the ingredients. Add the Dillard’s liqueur, the strawberry puree, and the vanilla; beat to fully incorporate.
Add one third of the flour mixture to the batter and combine fully. Add one half of the buttermilk and incorporate fully. Beat in another third of the flour mixture followed by the rest of the buttermilk, and then thoroughly incorporate the last third of the flour mixture but do not over-beat.
Whip the egg whites until stiff. Gently whisk in the first third just enough to lighten the batter. Fold in the remaining two thirds of the whites one third at a time. Transfer to the cake pans.
Bake in the center of the oven at 350⁰ for 25 to 30 minutes until a toothpick or cake tester comes out clean. Cool the cakes in their pans on wire racks for 15 minutes. Then remove and allow to cool completely. Chilling the layers before frosting is helpful.
STRAWBERRY CREAM CHEESE FROSTING
Ingredients:
1 ½ sticks of butter at room temperature
8 oz. of cream cheese at room temperature
1 tablespoon of Drillard’s Strawberry Liqueur, or similar product
½ teaspoon of vanilla
1 package of the sugar free strawberry gelatin
¼ cup strawberry puree
8 cups of powdered sugar
Directions:
Beat the butter and cream cheese together until fully combined and fluffy. Beat in thoroughly the vanilla, Drillard’s, the gelatin and the puree.
Beat in one cup of the sugar at a time, beating thoroughly until all the sugar is incorporated and the frosting will hold its shape. Chill the frosting for 15 minutes.
Frost the chilled layers. Garnish with strawberry slices and mint leaves or as desired.
