Pride Mousse

I'm sure my mother-in-law won't care if I share this story.

I call her "Mother Bear." That is how she is programmed in my phone and it is a term of endearment. Bears protect their cubs. Remind me to tell the story sometime about how she hacked a giant rattlesnake to death with a shovel to protect her babies.

Mother Bear was recently in town for the blessing of Renee's miracle baby. I had to make two-dozen somethings to take to the family luncheon. I had previously decided to make dark chocolate mousse-filled strawberries. I have made them lots of times and they've always turned out to be perfect little show-stoppers. Mother Bear kept asking if I needed any help and I politely declined every time she offered because I wanted to make the treat all by myself. I wanted to make them all by myself so that when people raved about how scrumptious they tasted I could take all the glory. If she helped me then I'd have to say "we" made them, which isn't as fun as saying "I" made them.

I was whipping the cream for my mousse when Mother Bear came and stood behind me. She asked me about my mousse recipe and I suddenly got nervous and prickly all over. And then I overbeat the cream. By the time I folded in the chocolate it had curdled and I was ticked. Adiós cloud mousse, hello scrunchy, separated weird mousse. Because the mousse was overbeaten it didn't pipe into the strawberries right. They looked hideous. The whole time I was piping Mother Bear was asking me, "Did you check to see if something is lodged in your piping bag?" I snapped at her, "No, nothing is stuck. Trust me, they never look like this! You're making me nervous! Hit the road!" I handed her the piping bag and stomped upstairs to get ready for church.

In the privacy of my bathroom I vented to Greg, "Your mom is messing me up! She thinks I'm a baby! She thinks I can't even make mousse! I've made mousse a thousand times and it's better than her mousse because it doesn't have egg whites! I can do it myself!" Just listening to myself caused me to picture a toddler that screams at her mother, "I can dress myself!", and then proceeds to button her shirt incorrectly and wear her shoes on the wrong feet. I really am immature sometimes. Greg, ever the steady one, sat me down and said, "Do you even know who my mother is? She had seven kids. She has given her life away for the last forty years to take care of us. She probably doesn't even remember what it's like to be selfish. All she knows how to do is help her kids. She just wanted to help you because you're her kid, too." Ugh. This is how I treated the woman that bore my husband, taught me to crochet, taught me to blind hem, and attempted to teach me how to install zippers for four hours the night before? I'm evil.

About a minute later Mother Bear squeezed into our tiny master bath and stood by the vanity while I gushed an apology.  With teary eyes and a shaky voice I told her that I didn't know why I was losing my cool over cream (Thomas B. Marsh Syndrome?) and that I just wanted to impress her and to be good enough for her. Then I realized it wasn't that at all. I wanted to be better than everyone.

Pride is awful.

Pride doesn't care if I do MY best. Pride just cares if I'm THE best.  The likelihood of me ever being THE BEST in the world at anything is pretty slim.

It's important from time to time to do some checks and balances with yourself. Assess why you do things. Do things because they bring you joy. Don't do things to be better than others. Push yourself, always push yourself, but aim for a personal best. Don't compare yourself to others. Share what you know how to do and don't take all the credit. Remember that someone probably taught you how to do what you are so good at, and it might have even been your mother-in-law.

You bet I'm including the recipe.

Pride Mousse

1 1/2 c. heavy cream

5 oz. 60% or semi-sweet chocolate, finely chopped (I use my food processor)

1 t. pure vanilla

1/8 t. salt

a little powdered sugar

Heat 1/3 c. of the cream just to a boil in a small saucepan over high heat. Pour the cream over the chocolate in a medium bowl and whisk until the chocolate is melted and smooth. Let cool. Whisk in the vanilla and salt.

Beat the remaining cream (with a little powdered sugar added...just eyeball it...a large sprinkling) with an electric mixer on medium-high speed in a large bowl just until the cream forms stiff peaks when the beaters are lifted. Add the chocolate mixture and beat on low speed until the mixture forms soft peaks. Spoon mousse into small bowls and chill until ready to serve.

Serves 4.

Dole

  

It's officially grilling season and there is not much better than grilled pineapple spears.

In 1996 I went to the Dole Pineapple Farm in Hawaii but didn't pay a lick of attention to what the employees were saying on the tour. I was taking pictures of tiny pineapples and red pineapples and upside-down pineapples. Check out how sharp the leaves are! Do many fruits come with their own armor? Seriously, throw me in the briar patch. Just don't throw me in the pineapple patch. Yowzers.

My good friends Chris and Michelle Powell had a Hawaiian anniversary a few years ago and they also went to the Dole Pineapple Farm. They actually listened to the employees. Here are the tips to buying the perfect pineapple every time:

1. Color doesn't matter.

2. The eyes should be the same size all over.

3. Don't pick a squishy one.

4. It should NOT smell like pineapple. (If it does, it's too ripe. Like buying an avocado that is squishy.)

5. Turn it upside down in your fridge to let the juices flow back up to the top.

6. Once cut up, rinse the pineapple to rid it of extra acid. No more sores in your mouth!

Number four is the most important one. It is counterintuitive to buy fruit that doesn't smell. Ever since they taught me their tricks I haven't picked a bad pineapple. Let all the other suckers at the store buy the fragrant, dry, pale, non-succulent ones.

Aloha.

Fragment

I nearly ruined Easter.

I did the same thing with Christmas. I sometimes ruin perfectly good weekdays. It's because I crave perfection. (The skewed worldly version of perfection heavily influenced by art-directed magazine shoots, airbrushing and Currier & Ives.)

Easter is hands-down my favorite holiday. It celebrates the resurrection of Jesus Christ and coincides with what is usually a sunny, windless, bulb-popping-tree-blooming gorgeous spring morning.

How I Hoped Easter Would Pan Out: Vases dripping with tulips, daffodils and lilacs from my own yard would adorn every stationary indoor ledge. RE would flit down the stairs in her perfectly-fitted Easter dress and bouncy pink foam curler ringlets. She'd twirl with delight on the landing while the scent of homemade cinnamon rolls wafted through the sparkling house. I would be dressed in something spectacular with matching heels and a fresh, new lipstick. Greg would waltz into the kitchen and carry the cinnamon rolls to our abundant table, setting them somewhere between the frittata and the gilded egg place card holders. On his way back to the island he'd pick me up by my waist, spin me around and declare to all within earshot that I am the perfect wife and mother. "He is Risen" and Handel's "Hallelujah" chorus would be blasting on the Bose and after a leisurely brunch we would all walk to church holding hands while birds chirped.

How This Easter Really Panned Out: My yard produced ONE daffodil which withered quickly due to temperature change and wind. No vases. I decided to make RE's Easter dress completely out of stained goodwill shirts. It took many late nights of piecing, gathering, unpicking and altering but I did it. That's the only thing on my "Fantasy List" that I accomplished. I finished pressing The Masterpiece three hours before midnight and then started baking some labor-intensive sweet rolls called "resurrection rolls" for every kid at church. At midnight I had made only 24 of the 80 needed. I got up early Easter morning to finish the other 56, not realizing they would take three additional hours. I was so busy commandeering the island with my roll project that Greg cooked scrambled eggs and a can of Pillsbury orange rolls for us (which I never had time to eat.) Thirteen minutes before church I jumped in the shower and did the fastest, sub-par, non-spectacular hair and make-up I've ever done and slipped on a dress that was fifteen years old. The cherry on top? I lost my temper at my daughter who was crying because I never had time to curl her hair. Most of the first hour of church I was filled with angst at myself. How did my grand intentions turn into horror?

Easter made it evident that if I didn't change my standard of perfection I was going to ruin the lives of everyone around me. Yes, it's okay to appreciate visually stunning circumstances. Yes, I have the aptitude to cook well and sew medium-well and set a mean table. Yes, I can love the details. No, I cannot expect to have it all ALL of the time.

The following week was spent at my parents' condo in Orange Beach, Alabama. Four days of staying up late, sleeping in, reading by the pool, sunning by the ocean and eating Milano Melts. Heaven. We beachcombed daily for the sea's fresh offerings. Foam-edged waves packed the wet sand like brown sugar. Beneath the ebb and flow of warm salt water I found a large fragment of a once-perfect sand dollar. I grabbed it and decided that was what I wanted to collect this trip. Pieces of sand dollars. Greg and RE helped me find more. I don't know why I wanted them. They looked like perforated styrofoam peanuts or chunks of old sidewalk.

Stretched out and drying off on my bright towel I began piecing my fragments together like a puzzle. I was trying to make one whole sand dollar from the bits. Then it hit me. Life isn't one whole perfect piece. Life is whole because we piece perfect fragments together and do our best to fill in the outline.

I think I already knew this. Somehow I forgot?

I framed my pieced sand dollar to remind me to enjoy the fragments life offers. No day is perfect, but each day has perfect moments. Repentantly, I now wake up and say to myself, "I have no idea what today will bring, but I'm certain something AWESOME is going to happen before I hit the pillow."

MY PERFECT MOMENTS THIS WEEK:

MONDAY> I heart mowing! Nothing like sucking up the dregs of winter and making fresh lines in the lawn. I got to see RE's exhilaration as she discovered lime-green shoots of baby grass growing beneath decomposing leaves in the corner of the yard. Tiny, thin blades trying to glow green in the dark: how do you force growth with all that weight on you?

TUESDAY> Front parking spots at Walmart, Target and the temple.

WEDNESDAY> Skipped one hour of the "Hope of America" pre-show by walking to Slab Pizza south of BYU campus. Got my fix of Thai pizza with an extra side of peanut sauce. Walked back to the Marriott Center umbrella-less in the pouring spring rain on sidewalks slippery with pear blossom petals.

THURSDAY> After a particularly rough day I was lifted by the unexpected visit and wisdom of a dear friend. And there was really good fruit dip at Book Club.

FRIDAY> Double date with funny friends. Funny Friend Husband tried on a too-small jacket at Forever 21 and did the robot. I nearly died laughing. Started a book after the date and it was so good I had to read the entire thing without stopping. Finished the book in bed at 1:30 a.m. with husband on my left and puppy on my right.

SATURDAY> Can't let puppy out into the yard without the smell of lilacs nearly knocking me over.

SUNDAY> Inched towards our annual goal of "Cook Fish Well" with orange roughy prepared two perfect ways. Fish doesn't taste like a dog toy? Who knew?! Received a beautiful letter in a yellow envelope. Laughed with neighbors during our walk around the block. Laughing always makes me sleep well.

Expect less. Salvage more.

Update on Tuesday, May 8, 2012 at 7:50PM by Melissa Durkovich Lawson

Religiously-based afterthought:

Funny enough, but the day after I posted this I got the latest edition of BYU Magazine and there was an article by Janet Scharman entitled "Seeking Perfection Without Being a Perfectionist" based on the Bible scripture Matthew 5:48 "Be ye therefore perfect." The best line of her article for me?

"Because becoming perfect through Christ is a powerful and important doctrine, Satan comes up with a counterfeit. Perfectionism is a counterfeit to real spirituality and is easily confused."

So there you go. Couldn't have said it better myself. Only one Being can help us become perfect, which is why it's so futile to attempt it on our own.

Turnips

Remember two things:

1. I love my husband.
2. It started with turnips.

I’ve been voraciously attempting recipes from Cook’s Illustrated of late. In our home I am allowed the liberty of cooking anything I want as long as Greg and RE can say what they really think about the taste. The way it usually works is they declare, “Keep this recipe” or “Chuck this recipe.” I found a recipe entitled “Farmhouse Vegetable Stew” that called for leeks, turnips, Yukon golds, celery, peas, porcini mushrooms and barley. Just the list of humble ingredients made me happy. I imagined I was part of the French jam-making grandfather/granddaughter duo in the movie “War Horse” and that I had just left our stone cottage to forage in the garden for shoots of life and tubers of good fortune. It was a feast that took four hours to make since I threw in bonus gifts of artisan bread and homemade lemon-thyme butter. Every bite sent my taste buds reeling and I was frolicking through the French countryside in my mind. Before I finished my bowl Greg and RE proclaimed that the recipe needed to be chucked. Excuse me? Were we sopping the same broth of heaven?

I let it slide, refrigerated the leftovers and ate Farmhouse Veggie Stew for the next five lunches as to not waste a drop. The flavors enhanced each other as the days passed. It was blowing my mind how good turnips could taste. I lunch at home alone in a perfectly quiet house, but on the fifth and last day of leftover soup I found myself seeking out a pale chunk of turnip with my spoon, lifting it to eye level, and saying aloud, “Turnip, it’s just you and me. We’re all we’ve got.”

Before I continue the unraveling of my naïve marital bliss I should clarify that I love balsamic vinegar. Beyond love, really. I aspire to one day purchase a $99 bottle of Aceto Balsamico di Modena (aged for 12 years) from Dean & Deluca to see how good it can really be. It would give me great happiness to own a bottle of vinegar that has its own floating insurance policy. When Marlena de Blasi sold her home in St. Louis, Missouri to move to Venice she took her bottle of aged balsamic vinegar, a red lipstick and some tall Gucci boots. I understand her. I could even live without the boots.

Back to the drama. A week after the Peasant Soup Revolt I was standing in a very long Saturday night grocery line. (Long enough to read the entire Food Network magazine without being disturbed.) Buried in a story about Anne Burrell’s bowling party was a recipe for "Alley Fries." Homemade French fries with gouda cheese, red pepper flakes and balsamic vinegar all over them. When my retinas scanned the word “balsamic” I turned into Pavlov’s dog and COULDN’T CONTROL THE SALIVA. As I unpacked the groceries I told Greg about the evening's snack option and he said, “I don’t think you realize that I don’t like balsamic vinegar the way you do.” Just stab me in the heart next time.

We’ve had numerous conversations since then. Apparently my husband, Jimmy Dean, and my daughter, Little Debbie, abhor almost everything I love. They think feta stinks up the house. They think my homemade wheat bread is too dense. They don’t enjoy the tang of balsamic vinegar slowly reduced to syrup whether drizzled over filet mignon or strawberries. Meatless fajitas are not complete. My idea for hummus smeared on pizza crust topped with roasted red peppers? Shot down in a blaze of glory. (Peppers give Greg heartburn.) Roasted beets? No, thank you. Costco’s jalapeno Greek yogurt dip? Ate the tub on my own, which was no small feat. My green smoothies? Greg can’t force himself to drink them and RE says they taste like dirt water. There are times when a suspicious Greg will ask with a hint of alarm in his tone, “Did you add flaxseed to this?” And if you want to see the color drain from his face just say the word “quinoa.”

This is a two-way street. I do not condone the eating of runny egg yolks, shrimp, roasted Twinkies, chili, Arby's Beef-and-Cheddar sandwiches or any candy that oozes out in goo form. I know. I'm a wet blanket.

Oh, the sojourn of marriage. Two souls united…unless we start eating.

Scout

Scout Finch was the best-educated kid in history because she had time to wear the knees out of her overalls.

She had time to walk everywhere in Maycomb and time to think on the back porch.

She had time to search knotholes for shiny treasures.

She had time to learn in the kitchen from dark and wise Calpurnia.

She had time to see injustice up close and time to be personal with a hard-to-reach neighbor.

She had time to become bright, intuitive and happy despite the shocking absence of chore charts, taxpayer programs and helicopter parenting.

Atticus was the best parent in history because he chose to snatch teaching moments as they came instead of playing on his iPad. And he never drove Scout to gymnastics at speeds surpassing 45 MPH through residential streets while she wharfed down a semi-nutritious dinner served on a paper towel.

We are too busy.

Yesterday I made a change. I forced RE to play in her tree house until dark. She was not allowed to practice, read, multiply, reduce, memorize etymology or become more fluent until after dark. This caused her to go to bed at 10. It was worth it.

She smelled like sweat. She gathered pond weeds and crushed them for potion spices. She washed her remnant dishes in the creek like a proper Boxcar Child. She flirted with a few boys that passed by underfoot (meaning she dumped water on them from her 1-story advantage). She raced and giggled and got muddy. She played so hard that her ponytail came out three times.

She went to bed smarter than she was a day ago.