Banana Bread

First off, let me say I apologize for not having posted in so long!!! But just to make it up to you all, I figured I would hop on the bandwagon and bake something! Mmmmm delicious. 

So I figured I would try out a banana bread recipe! I got my inspiration for this recipe from  Banana Bread Dot Com (yes, that's its name), which is dedicated to all kinds of banana breads. I really had no idea you could have so many variations. 

Well, I chose to make the moist banana bread, because I mean really, who wants dry bread? Not this guy!!!

After beginning my baking adventure, I realized I had no bread pan... which can be a problem when baking bread. 

So ladies and gentlemen! I give to you Banana Bread Cake!!!! Yes, that's right. You can have your bread and cake too!! Er... Nevermind. 

So the recipe is generally the same as the site's, but I did alter it just a tad. 

Moist Banana Bread

• 4 Mashed Bananas (use ripe ones)
• 1 cup sugar (you can use less, butttt I didn't ;) )
• 2 Large Eggs
• 1/2 Cup Vegetable Oil
• 2 Cups All Purpose Flour
• 1/2 Teaspoon Baking Powder
• 1 Teaspoon Baking Soda
• 1/2 Teaspoon Salt
• 1 Teaspoon Vanilla
•  1 Teaspoon Nutmeg
• 1 Teaspoon Cinnamon 
• 1/2 Cup Nuts (optional, but I used almonds. However, I think it would be better with walnuts or pecans) 

Yes, I do have a Marilyn sign in my kitchen!! 

1. Preheat your oven to 350 F and grease your loaf pan, or if you're like me, your cake pan ;).

2. Take a large bowl and add sugar, shortening (or oil), and eggs. Mix for a while and then add mashed bananas and mix some more. I didn't use beaters, just a whisk. 

Lily knows where the good stuff is!

3. Pour the batter into the loaf pan and bake for around one hour. Be careful not to over bake! It will take away the moistness! I found that closer to 45 minutes did the trick. Be aware that everyone's oven is different!

4. Let cool for a few minutes and eat!!!! MMM! 

If want the recipe to be even more moist, just add more nanners!

If you really want to jazz it up, slap on some peanut butter, or even some berries and a special syrup of your choice. It's delicious alone of course, especially for breakfast,  but if you want to make it more of a dessert, I suggest giving a little bit more of a sweet edge to it. 

Happy Baking!!!

xoxo

The Trouble with Bella...

So, I took a Vampire Stories class this semester and this is my final paper. While I do like Twilight, I believe that Bella is a terrible character and stand by what I say below. Just thought you might be interested in what you can see within the story, other than romance.

Vampire lore has developed many new facets within the last thirty years. It has seen the evolution of the woman’s role within vampire stories, rising from being the bled to becoming the bleeder. We have watched as the norms we have associated with vampires, such as garlic and wooden stakes, have been changed and even eliminated. But perhaps one of the most significant changes in vampire mythology is the weight placed upon romance. In older vampire films, women have become entranced by the vampire, but now, romances blossom, no matter how unlikely.

Perhaps the greatest example of these improbable romances is the teenage drama Twilight, a four part series following Bella, a high school girl void of a personality, and her perfectly sculpted, bloodsucking boyfriend Edward. The books, as well as films, take vampire mythology to a whole different level, transforming vampires into “vegetarians”, as they only drink animal blood, living diamonds, as they sparkle in the sun instead of burn, and avid mind readers as well as visionaries of the future. 

The novel itself, though wildly popular among schoolgirls and school moms alike, has received much grief and scrutiny for its simplistic writing style and lack of character development. Horror fiction novelist Stephen King said of the Twilight author, “Stephanie Meyer can’t write worth a darn.” Whether Meyer’s writing style is up to par is beside the point. It’s what she writes about that really lacks any depth.

One of the biggest issues within the novel is its main character, Bella Swan. It can’t be said that Bella is loveable, interesting, smart, funny, or even beautiful. She is your average teenage girl, nothing distinguishable or out of the ordinary. So why a 150 -year-old learned and experienced vampire would fall so deeply in love with her remains a mystery.

Bella is written in a way that any reader could place herself in Bella’s shoes. She has no interests or hobbies and does not excel in anything in particular, except for living her life totally and solely for Edward. Really, without Edward there would be no point for Bella.

In the essay “Vampire Love: The Second Sex Negotiates The Twenty-First Century”, Bonnie Mann refers to Bella as having a specialty of self-sacrifice and as being almost completely helpless. “She is prone to get bruises and scrapes just in the process of moving from one place to another.” (Mann, page 133)  And it’s really spot on. Bella becomes so dependent on Edward. He is saving her in just about every scene, whether it’s from hungry vamps or from tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.

Not only does Bella depend on Edward in a way that is almost sickening, but she also embodies the ideal woman of your mother’s generation. (Mann, page 132). She excels in cooking and doing laundry, taking care of her father throughout her stay in Forks. Mann compares Bella as being a “empty conduit of masculine desire” and being valued for “her prosperity alone.” (Mann, page 134)

In contrast, Edward is a perfectly sculpted, beautiful, well-traveled, articulate vampire who has seen the world and who has the world at his feet. One has to wonder what the two could find to talk about.  Perhaps he likes to feel like Superman, and so sticks with the person who most often needs saving.

One of the only interesting and unexpected aspects to Bella is her desire for sex.  However, though she is persistent, Edward continuously dismisses her, agreeing only to yield to her wishes if she agrees to marry him. Eventually, both parties’ wishes are met, but Bella is, in a sense, punished for wanting sexual pleasure. This yet again brings us back to a nineteenth century sort of woman.

Once Bella has succeeded in having sex with Edward, she is penalized over and over. Before sex, she was wed right out of high school, which Bella had never wanted. Once the act had been performed, she is covered in bruises, bed frames are broken, and then the unthinkable happens; Bella becomes pregnant. And not only must she go through the normal symptoms of pregnancy, but the fetus is literally killing her by the minute.  Her body is mangled, she is forced to drink human blood, and eventually the fetus must be eaten out of her, the skin of her stomach literally bitten away. If this isn’t enough to dispel a yearning for sexual desire, I don’t know what is.

Though Bella’s life revolves solely around a man, or vampire, Mann points out that there is a small facet of feminism within the novels. Another one of Bella’s desires is to become a vampire herself, not only to live eternally by Edward’s side, but also to be equals.  “A man and a woman have to be somewhat equal. One of them can’t always be swooping in and saving the other one.” (Mann quoting Twilight, page 141) Bella yearns to be like Edward and her wish is granted in the fourth book. She becomes like her lover, except quicker and stronger. In the end it will be Bella who saves the day, not Edward. It is really the only time we see Bella as a strong woman, though she really isn’t a woman at all anymore, but a monster of sorts.

Bella’s story does indeed end with her sweetheart, but in an offbeat sort of way. Mann makes the distinction between Bella’s ending and your average fairy tale happy ending. It is more of a nightmare in fact, in that Bella comes so close to death and then lives as undead. She erases herself and the life that she knew and gives it all to her love, becoming like Edward. She gives herself to him completely.    

         

The fact that so many women long for a romance like that of Twilight is somewhat worrisome. Realistically, these readers are longing for a relationship in which the man is overly-protective, at times controlling, and better than she in every sense. Understandably so, she longs to be wanted and to be protected.

Bella led a boring, not exceptionally happy life before she met Edward. In this, Meyer leads one to believe that the only way to find happiness is to find a man who will give meaning to your existence. Bella is once again unable to control anything that happens to her, not even her own destiny, and is a terrible role model for all women who read the saga. For anyone who tries to find significance through another, and not through themselves, is destined for failure.

Meyer has given women all over the world an impossible and unhealthy romance to delve into. Sure, it’d be fun to be bitten, but to be completely devoured? I think not. 

Eviscerate

I felt the urge to write a poem.
This is what I came up with.

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Black pillars in the sky,
Against shades of blue and gold.
Reaching e'er high.
Like demons to the soul.

Souls of young and aging,
Beautiful and dark.
It festers.
It is plaguing.
Stealing songs from broken lark.

It comes and stays like winter,
In a land where flowers grew.
It withers and it splinters,
Spinning webs of things untrue.

It gorges on mind and body,
Wreaking havoc on the soul.
Its airs are cold and haughty.
Its tactics strong and bold.

It takes charge of lungs and heart,
Causing breath to come up short.
Between mind and soul it darts.
Its goal to life abort.

Until weak and withered weary,
The giver shall collapse.
The taker and the dreary,
Alone shall deeply laugh.

Full of life and stolen joy,
It has feasted on the soul.
It is cunning and is coy.
Who next shall pay the toll?

The Beginning

A creative observation while on break between classes. Yes, I should be studying. No it's not creepy... right?

----------------------

She laughs at his joke. He smiles at her laughter. She sits in her leather arm chair, legs curled up, yelling at him to go to class. He leans in closer. You feel the tension.

They joke about little things, stories from the week. When he laughs, he moves in closer. Sometimes his hand rests on her knee, but he quickly brings it back, afraid of rejection.

Her dark brown hair rests on her bright blue shirt. A bobby-pin holds back her bangs. Her eyebrows are thick, but manicured too. She constantly plays with her water bottle, a habit of nerves. 

He wears khaki shorts and the cliche boat shoes. Sunglasses hang on his dark blue Alpha Chi Omega tee. He fiddles with his iPod. 

They're leaning even deeper now, comfortable in each other's company. In their own little world, giggling with each other constantly. 

The chemistry is obvious, but neither one gives in. She hits him with her bottle, an obvious flirtation. And eventually it's with her hand. The walls are coming down. The tension, breaking. 

You see it in his eyes. You hear it in her tone. It's the beginning of something, maybe the beginning of everything. 

Every gaze is more intense, every laugh is sweeter. Something more's about to happen. It's only a matter of moments...

And then it shatters. Time for class. 

He's running late. 

Red

“Beauty that dies the soonest has the longest life. Because it cannot keep itself for a day, we keep it forever. Because it can have existence only in memory, we give it immortality there.”

Twelve years ago today, my mother passed away. She was only 36 and had barely begun to live her life. Death takes away for reasons we cannot know, but it is our job to keep those gone alive in our memories. 

This is something I wrote a few months back while reminiscing about my mom. May her memory live forever.

Her bright red locks, swirling in the wind. Her laughter rising above a crowd. Her smile, lighting up a room. Her outwardness bringing out an inner self. Her charm, lighting up the sky. 

Bits and pieces of my mother float around in my head, threatening to float away. The smell of her pillows. The way she called me “chippy”.  The pistachios she kept in her purse for a mid day snack.  The way she cooked eggs in the microwave when she was in a hurry. Sometimes I can hear her voice, but as quickly as it comes, it is gone, like a memory that never existed. 

I remember the days she would take off of work, so I wouldn’t have to be alone. And not being able to leave the house in fear of receiving grief, as she obviously wasn’t “sick” as she had reported. 

I remember the little things. 

But there is so much that I don’t remember. and so much that is foggy. So much that I will never know. So much that I will never pass on. The woman who gave me life, whose life I know so little about.                                                                                                                        They say that time heals all pain. But time does more than heal. Time assists you in forgetting, whether you want to or not. Time will take your memory and slowly erase it, one fragment at a time.

As the days fly by, as they so quickly do, so too will their memory. Until all that is left is a distant face within a picture; a face you’re sure that you know, but can’t recall the details. A face which you know you loved, but can’t really remember why. 

My mother passed while listening to a message from me, explaining how I had finally lost my tooth. As my message came to an end, so did my mother, my voice the last she would hear; her voice, the first I had ever heard. 

You look into the mirror and ask yourself if this can really be happening. The answer is yes, it can. And it does. And it will continue to happen. Life without death cannot exist. Life and death go hand in hand. The giver and the taker. The beginning and the end.

I only remember bits and pieces of my mother, a lot of which I have learned from childhood videos. And as I grow older, memories like her smell and the sound of her laughter start to fade. And the tears come less frequently. Though in the still of the night, when I’m left alone with my thoughts, my mother sometimes comes to mind. and the emptiness of forgetting sinks in.

-----------------------------------------------

My mom visits me in my dreams occasionally, and I am reminded of what it is I've lost: a mother, a best friend, a confidante. Someone to help pick out my wedding dress, hold my hand when I first give birth, listen when I cry, laugh with me at night. A mother is so precious, and someone that I see so many take for granted. Cherish your mother. She gave and will continue to give you life. For a life without a mother isn't really a full life at all. 

I have been lucky enough to be blessed with an amazing family, who are always there. And the best Dad anyone could ask for. But nothing can ever really fill that void, that emptiness that was made when my mother passed. 

Take no one for granted in your life. Life is so sweet and oh so short. We cannot measure our moments for just as quickly as they come they are gone. 

Time moves on. It doesn't care who comes or goes. It is unfeeling and compassionless. And so too must we move on,  continuing on with our lives and living in the moment, for moments are all we have.

I love you Mommy. May you continue to look down on us from the heavens.

xoxo

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It's never to early to flirt

I was on the bus this morning, running off of six hours of sleep as usual, when I realized I was wanting to make googly eyes at this cute guy in aviator sunglasses.

Then I thought "Elise, it's too early to flirt." But then it occurred to me, we never really turn the flirting off. Morning, noon and night, even in our dreams, we are constantly interacting with those guys in aviator glasses, or at least wishing we were.

We never turn it off. And maybe that's what gets us through the day, a healthy dose of sultry gazes and flashy grins. Too bad we rarely ever approach, but just flirt from afar.

So boy in aviator sunglasses, I will continue to gaze at you from my seat four rows back no matter how early the bus ride. As for the guy that just sat next to me wearing two too many bottle of cologne, it's just too damn early.

Smoke Signals

One of the simplest yet purest joys in life is the love shared between man and his best friend. (Yes ladies, this goes for you as well.)

I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't have some furry friend running around, laying at my feet or cuddling up to me in bed. Perhaps that's part of the reason I thought I wanted to be a vet. Animals are a huge part of my life. But they are so much more than animals, they become a part of the family. 

And so when one passes, it's like losing a sibling or a child.

We had an original little pack of pets who were around for most of my childhood.

Whiskers was the first. Followed by her daughter Soukie, Bowie, Smoke, Bear and Patches. 

They all lived fairly long lives, with Whiskers living to about 16. 

But one by one, they started to pass away, leaving only a memory. It was almost like they were all a packaged deal, and it just wasn't right if they all weren't together. 

Bowie was my mom's dog. When he passed it was exceptionally hard. He was the last living link to my life with my mom. He really was the best dog. 

Eventually it came down to Smoke and Bear. The final two. 

I remember I named Smoke when he was just a baby because his eyes looked all smokey. He was a lover and a cuddler, always wanting to come inside when it was cold. 

He was my first kitten.

Smoke passed away just recently, leaving behind a bit more empty space in our hearts and a few more tears to shed. 

Unfortunately I wasn't there for his final moments. But I will always remember little Smoke and his bedroom eyes.

This is an account of Smoke from my Dad. He asked that I share. 

Be sure to have your tissues near by. It's a tear jerker. 

I had to have Smoke put down the other day.  He was my cat.  He was 13.  I had had him since he was a kitten.  He had been quite a scrapper in his prime, although he was always affectionate.  He would never miss the opportunity to rub up against me and purr out his emotions whenever I was outside.  He would always be waiting for me in the driveway when I would return from my evening walk with my chow mix Bear.  He’d walk back to the house with me, expecting his required daily dose of my affection.

But he developed cancer of the jaw some months ago.  When the vet diagnosed it, he told me that Smoke wouldn’t have a lot of time.  His chin kept growing, stretching the skin, I suppose, to the point where it was always raw.  Over the last few weeks I noticed that he was eating less and less from the plastic food bowl that he had always used.  I would notice him jockeying around the bowl trying to get a better vantage point for getting at his food, so I replaced his bowl with a small flat ceramic dish from my kitchen with a gay little illustration of bunnies with the inscription “Happy Rabbit Family On A Picnic.”  I thought he might more easily be able to negotiate his food into his mouth from a flat surface.  I would mound up his food to make it as easy to get to as possible.  It helped for a time, but he continued to eat less and less, and I noticed that he would end up pushing a good portion of his food off one side of the dish in his struggle to get the food into his mouth.

With each day he appeared thinner and more haggard.  He finally stopped eating entirely.  At meal time he would be waiting and mewing, and rubbing against my legs as he always did, but he wouldn’t touch his food, hungry as he was, because he could no longer move his mouth properly.  His tongue and his teeth were being contorted by the abnormal growth of the underlying bone. I couldn’t let him go on like that.  He was slowly wasting away.

When I carried him into the vet’s office, one of his assistants, seeing the emotional mess that I was,  quickly ushered me into a little examination room directly off the waiting room that I had never been in before.  The thought occurred to me that this must be the killing room.  Smoke quietly purred on my lap, and occasionally looked up at me, as I gently stroked him, and I wondered if he had any inkling of how little life he had left.  After several minutes the vet and his assistant came in and the vet, upon seeing Smoke’s distorted jaw, remarked “Oh, I can see right away, it’s his time.”  He told me that he would give Smoke an injection that might sting a little, and that in four to five minutes, he would fall into a “deep slumber”.  They placed him on the stainless steel examination table and administered the shot without so much as a flinch from Smoke.  They gave him back to me, and, as he quietly laid on my lap, with tears streaming down my face, the life slowly and peacefully flowed out of him.  After a few minutes he gave a slight little gasp that accompanies the transition from life to death.  I kept trying to close his eyes, but they refused, staring blankly, wide eyed.  I placed him on the exam table, and I waited for the vet to return while Smoke continued to stare at me through unseeing eyes.

When the vet’s assistant returned she asked me if I would like a little box to put him in, and I told her yes.  She took him into the adjacent room, and, after several minutes, she returned with a small cardboard box that still had the UPS label on it addressed to the vet.  The box was neatly taped shut, and it struck me as rather too small to hold the body of my little friend.  I thanked her, and, as I left, she gave me an assuring pat and told me that she was sorry.

As I drove home with my little parcel on the floor next to me, I thought about how we all end up in the same place.  In a little box.  I anguished over the decision that I had had to make over his life or death, and I considered how pointless and insignificant are our grievances and jealousies, our imagined slights and resentments, our grasping and lusting and envying with which we waste so much of our energy, emotion, and precious time. Death can have such a clarifying quality.  It can so sharpen perception and perspective.  Follow your passion.  Live life to its fullest.  Don’t sweat the small stuff.  Love, and hopefully, find love.  We have so little time.

I buried Smoke in the little patch of ground behind my house which has become the little unmarked cemetery for the many dogs and cats that have shared my home over the years. I’m left with just Bear.  He’s a digger.  I’m always having to repair areas of the yard that he’s dug up.  He’s an escape artist too.  I have two acres of fenced ground for him to run around on, yet he runs out of the front gate every chance he gets.  He’s a pain in the butt, but he’s a good dog. 

He’s about ten years old now.  I wonder how much life he has left.  I wonder how much life I have left.  I hate to think about his death.  When he dies, I don’t think I’ll have another pet.  It’s too painful when it’s their time.

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I have my babies now, Dakota, Lily and Mistofelees. Occasionally it will hit me that one day they too will pass, and I start to cry. But we can't live life that way. So I cuddle up to Lily at night, snuggle with Bug on his pillow, and let Misto sit on top of my computer while I type, no matter how in the way he is. And I cherish every moment.

If you have never experienced the love of a pet, you haven't experienced unconditional love. It's the purest form of love you may ever know.

So here's to our friends, family and loved ones, furry or not. May we always remember what is important and not take anything for granted. Life is precious, sweet and so, so short. If you leave nothing else behind on this earth, leave behind love. It's all that really matters. 

Rest In Peace Smoke.

I'll be watching for your smoke signals.