Save the Recipe: Gullah Dirty Cake

 From time to time I find recipes that I find interesting and make an effort to save them. Mostly it's the old recipes that cooks and chefs might wrinkle their noses at. This one surprised me as it includes lard as one of its ingredients. I haven't seen that since I was a child. So here it is, from the cookbook Cake Ladies, Celebrating a Southern Tradition by Jodi Rhoden (2011 Lark, Sterling Publishing Co.) This recipe is found on page 69 and was contributed by Dye Scott-Rhodan (not Rhoden ... Rhodan.)

If I ever do make this recipe, it would be worthy of a comedy video as I think I would totally muck it up. I love to bake but I live in a small place with very little kitchen space. It becomes very difficult to make much. I prefer to make things that have few ingredients so that I have less to put out on countertops. If anyone who reads this makes it or has made it, please let me know what you think of the cake.

Also, quick note, I read through to make sure everything was correct and noticed that autocorrect had made a few unauthorized changes. My vision is going bad, and I may not have caught all of them. If you spot something, please let me know.

Gullah Dirty Cake

PREP TIME: 20 minutes

BAKING TIME: 35 minutes

COOLING TIME: 1 hour

DECORATING TIME: 20 minutes

YOU WILL NEED

For the Cake: 

1/2 cup lard

1 1/4 cup sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

4 large eggs at room temperature

3 ounces unsweetened baker's chocolate, melted

2 1/2 cups cake flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/4 cup buttermilk 

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

For the Icing

3 sticks (1 1/2 cups) salted butter

1 1/2 cups cocoa powder

1 1/4 cups milk

3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

15 cups of powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.

• Prepare the Pans

• Spray three 8-inch round cake pans, liberally with cooking spray. Place the pans on a sheet of parchment paper, and trace three circles, the same size as the bottoms of the pans. Cut the circles out and place in the bottoms of the greased pans.

• Make the Batter

• In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the lard slowly. Add the sugars, beating at medium speed until creamed, light and fluffy. 
• Stop the mixer and, using a rubber spatula, scrape down the paddle, sides, and bottom of the bowl. Add the eggs to the mixture one at a time, stopping the mixer to scrape down the bowl after each addition. 
• Add the chocolate. Make sure that it has cooled slightly, but still melted. 
• Measure the flour, baking soda and salt, and place them in a sifter over a separate, clean bowl. Sift the ingredients together. 
• Add a third of the flour mixture to the creamed mixture and beat slowly until just combined. 
• Add half the buttermilk and beat slowly until just combined. Repeat, alternating between the flour mixture and buttermilk, ending with the flour mixture. 
• Add the vanilla and combine. 
• Stop the mixer and thoroughly scrape down the paddle, sides, and the bottom of the bowl, and continue to beat the mixture on low speed until all of the cake batter is light and uniform in color and texture. 
• Be careful not to beat the mixture anymore after the ingredients are all smoothly incorporated however as this will toughen the batter and create air tunnels in the finished cake.

• Bake the Cake

• Divide the batter evenly among the three pans. Place in the preheated oven and bake for 35 minutes or until a knife, inserted in the center of the cake, comes out clean and the sides of the cake have pulled away from the sides of the pan. 
• Set the pans aside and allow the cakes to cool completely.

• Make the Icing

• Mix the butter, cocoa, and milk in a saucepan and heat on medium low heat, stirring until the butter melts and the ingredients are fully combined. 
• Remove from the heat and add the vanilla. 
• Place the chocolate mixture into the bowl of the stand mixer with the paddle and whip until completely cooled. NOTE: If you add sugar to the chocolate mixture while warm it will melt and become sticky and not fluffy. 
• Add the powdered sugar a cup at a time, scraping down the bowl periodically until fluffy and spreadable.

• Assemble the Cake

• Invert the first layer onto a cake plate so that the parchment side is up. Carefully peel the parchment off the cake and throw it away. 
• Spread about one and a half cups of icing on the top surface of the cake with an offset spatula, pushing the icing over the edges of the layer and creating an even coat of icing. 
• Place the second cake layer on top of the first and repeat the process, removing the parchment paper, and spreading the icing. Repeat with the third layer, and then cover the sides with the icing.

Dye’s Kitchen Wisdom

If the icing is too liquid and hard to work with simply let it stand, whipping occasionally, until it begins to thicken. Also, if the icing is too soft, the layers can shift while decorating. Pop the filled cake into the refrigerator to firm up so the layers don’t slide while you’re icing the exterior. Gullah dirty cake can be kept covered at room temperature up to three days or up to a week if refrigerated.

It Really Is About Love

On June 24, 2023, I went to my first Pride event in Santa Ana, Ca. The whole event could have tested my boundaries and put me in a position of making some big personal choices.

But it turned out to be an easy choice. I chose love. 

I have always been in favor of LGBTQIA causes, especially at the ballot box. But I've never been one to assume I knew the hearts and minds of others, so it's confusing to me that the religious right seems to know what members of the "queer" community are experiencing. On Saturday, a few alleged Christians let us know they had answers for the "gay problem."

About eight men with the answers stood near the entrance of the Pride Festival holding signs posted on poles. They were calling out to those entering, yelling about sin and hell. Each wore a scowl. My hubby and my son were with me, as was my friend who is transitioning. 

Security held people back. An attempt to talk to these Christians resulted in a few screaming matches and an admonition from security to move along. I was mesmerized by the sight of the men. I found myself staring. It was as if a dark cloud hung around them. It felt warmer near them as if the sun burned hotter there. None of the air around them seemed to move.

I grabbed my teenaged son who seemed unconcerned with the men's presence, and I pointed to one man who was screaming at a gay man, "You are a c*ck sucker! That's what you are!" yelled the fine Christian. My son looked at me confused when I had grabbed his arm. 

"You see that man?" I asked L.L. He nodded. "That is the face of hate. I want you to remember that face. I want you to remember those words. You will find them everywhere you go." 

L.L. nodded and we walked on, into an area filled with the half-dressed partygoers, men and women with long beards and even longer gowns, facial makeup that would qualify as works of art, pastries in the shape of genitals, dancing and singing. It was also a place of love.

And I chose love.

What these men could not have known is what these people, who they hold as freaks, mean to many of us. My friend, who is in the middle of transitioning, has been witness to some of the best moments of my life. She has also witnessed some of the darkest moments. I do not connect to people easily, though people think I do. I do not have ease of conservation with most people. I have to work at it.

I hold close those who I connect with. Some of these people have not only offered support, they have walked with me during the darkest times in my life. Not that these men at a street intersection, screaming at us sinners could understand. They screamed that those of us celebrating should turn to Christ. But they are fools. In my times of crisis, God didn't wait for me (a lost Catholic lamb) to turn to him. He sent me these friends. He put this "queer" friend in my life. God saved my life.

What they also need to know is that no matter what they say or how dark their message, Christ will never stop populating the earth with "these people."

As I tried to make sense of the dark hatred, I suggested to my husband that these men may be fighting their own sexual battles. My hubby agreed that some are possibly suffering from self-imposed isolation and have become INCELs. A gay, friend who died long ago, battled his own inner demons. The son of a tough single mom with three sons, two of whom wouldn't be caught dead hanging around f*gs, he knew being gay was out of the question. He told me more than once how he loathed the gays almost until the day he finally accepted who he was. Once out, he found his peace. He found love. 

But for all this, members of the LGBTQIA community have to give up things. Some give up very little, others give up almost everything. Pretty much all give up their sense of security and must learn to live as targets, in constant fear of attack.

On Saturday, as we wandered around the festival area, I saw booths for several churches, a Jewish Rabbi, and medical groups, manning booths and handing out materials addressing the specific needs of the community. K rails protected festival goers from cars. But lurking on the edges was the hate.

One of my most vivid memories of the day is the anti-LGBTQIA protester who stood alone with a sign that read "Leave Our Children Alone." At that point I had spent hours sheltered from the hate and misogyny just outside the festival boundaries. The sign conjured up images of the countless children sent to conversion therapy and of the laws banning gender affirming care that kept many of the most vulnerable LGBTQIA members alive. But as I stared at the sign holder, I saw that familiar dark cloud around him, and I realized he was there to accuse the community of being groomers. Like the others celebrants, I looked away and kept walking.

We left late, packed down with rainbow stickers in the shape of hearts and Mickey Mouse. Yes, the Mouse was in the house! I had a little bit of a buzz going after one drink server was a bit too generous with the vodka. We saw no more protesters, much to my relief, as we headed to dinner. But the fear of that hate is never too far from the minds of the "queer" community and those of us who love them. At dinner, a server spotted our rainbow mouse stickers, gave a pleasant smile and asked, "Did you guys come from Disneyland?"

We froze. "Uh, no," I said. What do we say? Where does she stand? Who else was listening? She dropped it when we all just stared blankly. Fortunately, she was still nice to us after that.

The Dream that Slipped Through Our Fingers

For as long as I have known my husband, he has dreamed of seeing Paul McCartney. We watched every one of Paul's appearances. We watched him on numerous talk shows and even read the behind-the-scenes story of his big appearance with James Cordon during which the talk show host actually drove the former Beatle to his childhood home.

Bill watched wide-eyed as Cordon was called to the stage to take part in a performance of "Hey Jude," a song that always sparks emotion in my tender-hearted hubby. "Oh my God! Imagine getting called to that stage."

On February 24, we excitedly hit the purchase button on tickets to see Sir Paul on May 13 at SoFi Stadium. We were in section 522, row nine, seats one, two and three. This was going to be our son's first concert.

"Just know that I am going to be sobbing all the way through 'Hey Jude'" Bill told me the night we made the purchase.

Flash forward to May 5. Ticketmaster informed us we would not be going.

Here's the backstory: 

Late on Sunday April 24 Bill and I got into a joyful discussion about the tickets. Where will we park, I asked. He wasn't sure. So, he thought he should check on that and on the tickets. Within seconds, he jumped. "NO!" he yelled. "Our tickets were stolen." We have no idea how thieves were able to access our account. But someone had gotten into our Ticketmaster account and easily transferred the tickets where they were quickly sold. 

We raced to try and find our way back to the concert. After all this was Paul McCartney. One of the greatest and most influential singers, song writers and (we believe) poets of our time. It took a day and a half just to find a number for the Ticketmaster Fraud Division. When we finally got the number, it would take upwards of an hour and a half to get ahold of anyone. I say an hour and a half because at exactly 90 minutes, the phone system automatically kicks you over to voicemail. Throughout the wait for a representative, a recorded message encourages callers to click 2 to leave a voicemail. We left many. None were ever returned. Instead, we hung in there listening to the message and the generic and repetitive hold music for an hour and a half at a time.  

All of the customer service representatives were very polite. And for a while there, two of them assured us that it did indeed appear as if they had gotten us replacement tickets. "It looks like they have got you tickets," one of them told my husband as I listened in. "You'll probably get an email tomorrow."

That email never came.

My husband called back. "Don't worry," another rep told my husband adding that they would get it done; That it shouldn't be a problem and that the tickets would likely come to us closer to the time of the concert. We left it alone for a few days, but it was never far from our thoughts. Finally, an email came on May 5th hours after we spent three hours trying to contact their reps again. "We've been trying to reach you ..." the email read. This was news. We'd not heard from them. But it directed us right back to the same Fraud Division phone number. This time we waited about an hour before someone answered.

"Looking at the notes on the file, we are unable to replace the tickets," the Ticketmaster representative told my husband. He buried his face in his hands. "We're just not able to pull any so we have to give you your money back," she added.

It had already been a very tough week. Her words cut to the bone. As we sank into sadness, echoes of the woman apologizing and wishing us a good rest of the evening sounded hollow and scripted. Bill hesitantly hung up and sat in silence.

Are we done? 

There are always resale tickets, what we used to call "scalping." There are tickets available. But we saved and scrimped to buy the first ones. While we can use the money being refunded, we will pay more for seats that are farther away. Add to this that we have no clear clue when our money will be refunded, and it looks likely that we are out of luck.

The very least we can do is warn others: Check on the E-tickets regularly. Don't assume they will be there. BUY THE INSURANCE! I'm not 100 percent sure that we would have gotten offered our money back had it not been for that. And if you haven't already done so, freshen up your password.

This is so absolutely crushing. For me, it's not only a loss of opportunity to see a great performer, but it is also profoundly saddening to see my husband so crushed. And it is stunning that the juggernaut that is Ticketmaster presents itself as so helpless. While thieves made victims of us, it feels like Ticketmaster made fools of us.

Maybe this is not the end of the story. Maybe we can find the strength to keep trying. But the clock is ticking. 

I can't even imagine the countless other nameless and faceless people who have fallen victim to this terrible ticketing system. Just know that if I could, I would climb to a high point and scream out the stories. 

I am angry.

Caught Between Thieves and Ticketmaster, Will We Ever See Sir Paul Perform?

     The change in him was shocking.

On a recent Sunday, I had started a joke with my husband about knocking on wood so that I would not mess something up when he yelled. “No! No!" He pointed a finger at me. I froze. I stared at him. His fist was balled up. His jaw was clenched tight. Nearly silent for a full beat, I thought I had angered him. “What?” I asked hesitantly.

“Our Paul McCartney tickets were stolen,” he said.

His words didn’t make sense. Stolen? When? By whom? I wanted to scream but I just sat frozen. The record of it was still sitting in the Ticketmaster site. On April 9th, someone accessed my husband’s account and transferred the tickets to another account where they were (I can only assume) gladly accepted. My husband frantically tried to find a way to retrieve them. He frantically searched for recourse. Almost immediately, we started to find barriers.

It was 10 p.m. on Sunday April 24. The clock was ticking. As of today, we have roughly three weeks to get the tickets back.

This is not a story of loss. Not yet anyway. But we’re terrified, or more specifically, I’m terrified that possibly our last chance to see this great musician and poet perform has been ripped out of our hands. We spent more than we could afford to see Sir Paul; Nearly $1,000 between the price for the three tickets and added fees, including parking at SoFi in Inglwood. But we were so excited.

This was not going to be an ordinary concert for us. Like so many fans of great music, my husband Bill idolizes the Beatles. He has as much Beatle music as we’ve been able to afford. The Beatles channel is programmed into our Sirius XM. When he is stressed or struggling, he opens his phone to play “Hey Jude.” When he purchased the tickets, he turned to me and said, “Let’s just be clear that I will probably be sobbing through ‘Hey Jude’ … and maybe through the whole concert.’”

It was the most joyous feeling for him, for us. He would finally see one of his musical idols perform after all these years and despite all the poverty that prevented us from going in years past. We have slowly crept back toward financial security, but it’s been a hard and turbulent journey to now.

We were print journalists for many years and thus not very well paid. My husband and I moved out together as 20-year-olds, living hand to mouth, just happy to be in the business. Surely, we thought, we would pay our dues and move up the ladder. We’d earn better pay and build a life.

In many ways, we achieved our goals. We earned positions we were aiming for. My husband became an editor while I held a reporting position. Yet somehow, we began to slide backwards. We saw rents rising faster while our incomes began to stagnate. I realized one day that many of us were no longer getting annual reviews. Those came with pay raises.

Bill and I held off having a wedding for many years because we could not afford it. When the opportunity came to be married in a beautiful, memorable wedding, it was offered free through Knott’s Berry Farm, who was promoting the newly opened Ghost Rider. We married on a roller coaster. Our wedding was free and memorable.

Then we held off having children. Journalism was beginning to sputter. We feared for our jobs. Finally, when I became older, I realized it was almost too late and we decided to have a child. Soon after that, my birthing days were over. We’re blessed to have our son.

Soon, however, the shrinking of the newsrooms began to accelerate. First, I lost my job. Then I found another one far away. Then I found another closer to home. Bill’s job held steady, until it didn’t. He was laid off as technology took his job. I was then earning well but working at a startup. My husband began to freelance as he struggled to find permanent work. 

He applied everywhere. I continued working, until one day, the startups' owners announced they were selling the company. I, and 95 percent of the company, was let go. Bills and I were out of work. We prepared to lose the apartment until Bill’s parents stepped in.

This all took place over much of my son’s young life. While we indulge him more now, he grew used to hearing, “We have money but not for that …” All in an effort not to scare him about our situation. We slowly rebuilt.

It’s not like we haven’t ever had an opportunity to enjoy a concert or music despite our struggles. When you’re that broke you get creative. We borrowed money from a co-worker to see John Fogerty at the House of Blues in Hollywood. We literally bled for tickets to Tom Petty. The local blood bank was giving out lawn tickets at Irvine Meadows. And we won tickets for a large Alt Band music festival featuring Korn at Glen Helen through KROQ.

Bill volunteered to review and write about several concerts including Lenny Kravitz, The Offspring, Vince Gill and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (the latter at the Los Angeles County Fair.) Working for the privilege. I was also fortunate enough to have briefly been an usherette at Anaheim Stadium when U2 performed there for their Zooropa Tour.

Over the years, as our paychecks faded to zero, the price of concert tickets skyrocketed. And I watched musicians I’ve waited for years to see slowly disappear or stop performing.

I never got to see Tina Turner. We lost a chance to see Queen. And Nirvana … don’t get me started. I had longed to see Foo Fighters for many years only to mourn the recent loss of the band’s beloved drummer Taylor Hawkins. Will they ever perform again?

What are the chances we will see Paul McCartney play? When you face the chance of losing your concert tickets you begin to believe that you won't unless he lives forever and tours just as long.

These days we are both finally working at jobs that pay decently. My husband has stable work. I am a substitute teacher working toward full-time employment. We are finally in recovery. But now this?

My husband has reached out to Ticketmaster in an attempt to get the tickets back. The only way to contact Ticketmaster is through email in a system that sadly makes the user feel like they are being told, “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.” They responded with a link to their FAQ. If that did not answer our question, we were to get in touch with them within a day or two. Bill responded immediately. Monday afternoon, he called Ticketmaster’s fraud unit. They encourage people to leave a voice message. But we are frantic. He hung on. After 90 minutes on hold, the system forced him to leave a message anyway. Will they get in touch with us in time?

We’ve since learned it can take days or more than a week. Do we have that time? What is happening to our seats in the meantime? Our tickets?

Sunday night into Monday morning, I dreamt horrible dreams about us being scammed. The dream turned violent. I don’t know why. I don’t remember the whole dream, thankfully. But I woke up puffy eyed and with a wet pillow.

Why did these people make victims out of us? How can people be so cruel?

Of Grief and Cooking

Watching someone age is a funny thing. When you're there to watch the slow evolution over time, the aging is almost undetectable. But sometimes loved ones hit a point of rapid decline. And that is jarring.

On Feb. 23, my family lost a family matriarch. Great Grandmother Mae was my husband's grandmother. It's been a difficult thing to accept. For a long time, Grandmother Mae dealt with a number of health issues. One sometimes giving rise to another health challenge. Still, she seemed to recover and carry on. One day, sometime last year, she began to lose weight. She began to move slower. Eating became a challenge. The health issues that she had successfully navigated began to take their toll. Her worsening accelerating like a boulder rolling downhill. There were hospital stays and home caregivers.

And then one day, she was gone. Since her passing, a kind of grief that I feel I have no right to feel has hung over me. She wasn't MY grandmother. Both my grandmothers had died long ago.

Mae was 97. Born in the early 1920s, her worldview was painted during a vastly different time from mine. The child of immigrants who experienced racism, I learned to believe that "some people do not belong." And I was among those "some people." I would often isolate myself, sitting on the sidelines to save racism and prejudice from excluding me. Grandmother Mae had been raised in the mid-west, married, raised a family in a very traditional American home. Her husband, who preceded her in death, was a military vet who served during World War II and the Korean War.  They owned a beautiful home in a beautiful neighborhood.

I was raised by parents who had come to the United States from Central America. They started their own cleaning business. I was one of their laborers, often vacuuming and dusting. Everything we earned went toward paying bills. We were the embodiment of the cliche "eking out a meager living." Though my parents owned a home when I was a child, my father's impulsive nature cost us home-ownership after he sold it and moved us to his native Costa Rica - before I was 5. The money from the sale was spent. That impulsivity struck again and we returned to the US, but we never owned a home again. Then I became a writer and grew older while struggling to make ends meet with my husband, also an underpaid writer.

Not much common ground between grandmother and I.

One day, long before her age-induced decline, my hubby and I decided to pay grandmother an unscheduled visit. Despite some nerves, I agreed we should visit. We chatted and had some sodas. Grandmother Mae sat in her comfy recliner asking questions. 

"I hear you've been helping your sister," Grandmother Mae said suddenly. My eyes grew wide. The matriarch of the family is displeased, I told myself. She is about to remind me that I need to take care of my own small family before anyone else, as so many others had told me. In fact, despite our own financial struggles, we tried to help my younger sister. My heart jumped. I tried to downplay the whole thing. She smiled.

"It feels good to help others doesn't it," she said. I was stunned. She passed no judgment. She gave no admonitions. There was nothing but gentle encouragement. The nature of our relationship changed that day and I would try to show my gratitude, at least until this February.

Over the last few weeks the family has sifted through the pieces of her life, emptying drawers, closets, and cabinets. I have uneasily joined in. Among the things I was drawn to were her knitting supplies and her cookbooks. I see them as things that defined her. She was known as the Cookie Lady for obvious reasons. She spent a lifetime making meals. She had recipes that were uniquely hers. 

As I sifted through the cookbook collection, so many of the books seemed below her skill level. As I looked closer, I realized there were a great many things in these books that are not much talked about anymore. A bit unabashed, I gathered and claimed the collection and have been slowly sifting through the books. Some of the recipes should see the light of day.

With this in mind, I decided to post a few here over the summer. I chose a book randomly tonight and ended up leafing through the Family Circle Illustrated Library of Cooking published in 1972. It features foods popular throughout the United States and a culinary dictionary that defines everything from canape to rennet to zest.

While most of the recipes are what I would call "sleepers" not heard much of, this one totally caught my eye. Perhaps I should try to make it.

Grape Harvest Pie

Juicy fruit, fragrant spice, and nippy lemon blend pleasingly in this fall dessert. Bake at 400 degrees for 50 minutes. Makes 1, 9-inch pie.

1 package piecrust mix

2 pounds Emperor grapes, washed halved and seeded (about 5 1/2 cups)

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon mace

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1/2 teaspoon grated lemon rind

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons butter or margarine

1. Prepare the piecrust mix, following label directions, or make pastry from your own favorite 2-crust recipe. Roll out half to a 12 inch round on lightly floured pastry cloth or board; fit into a 9-inch pie plate; trim overhang to 1/2 inch.

2. Combine grapes, sugar, flour, salt, and mace in medium-size bowl; stir in eggs, lemon rind and lemon juice. Pour into prepared pastry shell; dot with butter or margarine.

3. Roll our the remaining pastry to an 11 inch round; cut several slits near center to allow steam to escape; cover pie; trim overhang to 1/2 inch; turn edges under and press together to seal; flute.

4. Bake in hot oven (400 degrees) 50 minutes, or until top is golden-brown and juices bubble up. Cool on wire rack about an hour; serve warm.

If I've Done Nothing Wrong, Are You Sure I Have Nothing to Fear?

I've been watching news reports on the Rayshard Brooks shooting. All sorts of memories have been filling my head. In the Brooks case, we see the kind of shooting that most people have shrugged off as justified. This is someone who tried to run, grabbed a Taser from the policeman, and fled, attempting to fire the stun gun over his shoulder.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with an officer once while I was still working as a cops reporter. He told me that any suspect attempting to flee in a vehicle, should he hit or come close to hitting an officer, becomes subject to a manslaughter/attempt murder charge and that officers were justified in using extreme force. The officer was candid but still chose his words carefully enough that he didn't actually say they could light the car up. This mentality is what a lot of SoCal officers head out into the field within poorer neighborhoods.

That reminded me of an incident I had. I've long regarded the police with what I call a healthy suspicion. My parents and siblings are split down the middle in the looks department as some of us either got the more indigenous looks or the European looks. My sister got good looking genes, long dark hair, gorgeous eyes while Europe apparently pooped all over my younger brother and me.

Still, you could tell we were Latino. As a result, we were often the target of police and the court system. Recently, after finishing up an assignment at son's school, I was driving us home. I turned onto a residential street where I noticed a Sheriff's car. I looked right at the deputy as I made the stop at the stop sign. I made a right and noticed he made a U-Turn and pulled up right behind me with his lights flashing. 

I can't tell you the feeling that runs through you when most of your experiences with officers have been negative. My heart started pounding. I started shaking. As I pulled over, I thought about what I should do. I was frozen. I knew I needed my license but I was too afraid to reach for it. I just sat there with Lucky next to me. He obliviously continued to watch videos on his phone. I swallowed hard and tried not to pass out. I prayed the cop would be as nice as the one who pulled me and my white husband over in a neighboring city ... but no dice.

Cop: "Did you make a full stop at the sign?"

Me, quietly wondering if it really mattered what I thought: "I think so."

Cop: "You THINK!?"

He then peers into my car and I follow his line of sight to my CJUSD badge. He then instructed me to hand over my license. I unfreeze enough to ask the oblivious child to hand me my purse. I hand over my license. The officer heads into his car to write me up. I sit there frozen on a hot day. I begin to sweat and to feel woozy. I wish I could turn on the car and run the AC but I'm terrified to do that. Meantime, he is in his air-conditioned vehicle slowly writing the citation. 

Sometime later, he comes out and announces he has decided to cite me only for expired tags. I hear part of what he says, I am loopy from fear and heat but I'm mindful to keep my hands where he can see them. I say something to him (I can't remember what) and he gives me a half-smile. Shaking I drive off. I feel relieved because, unbeknownst to the officer, my hubby had already sent off the payment for the tags. They were two months late because I had just started earning a paycheck. We finally had the money to pay.

I remembered that as I watched Brooks run. 

P.s. I stood up to my fair share of law-enforcement in my day, but since turning in my press credential, I feel as vulnerable as I did when I was a child watching my parents being treated as second class citizens. There is something empowering about a press badge.

Souplantation: Asian Ginger Broth

Recipes

For many of us, watching Covid-19 globally cut down families and kill hundreds of thousands has been, at best, heartwrenching. As is human nature, we often seek escape. But even in this, the virus has swept through, cutting down businesses we enjoy so much. Spreading everywhere, corona awaits silently like a sentry. We don't know when, if or who it will strike. Especially difficult is finding who is carrying the virus and how it will affect anyone in particular. This makes large gatherings potentially dangerous.

Among the sad business casualties of the destructive Covid-19 pandemic is Souplantation. The San Diego-based eatery offered some of the healthier food options known in buffet-dom. Want to build a salad made primarily of spinach leaves? They had your back. Want quinoa? Peas? Carrots? Edamame? Onions? Bell pepper? Tuna tarragon? Chilled spiral pasta? They had your back.

Speaking on behalf of my family, we will miss Souplantation immensely. Especially my son who has rather severe texture issues, a result of ADHD. He loved the focaccia pizza and cheesy garlic flatbread. And I would rest easy knowing that we chose a restaurant where he would eat instead of sitting there looking stressed as he desperately searched his mind for a way to get out of eating something without upsetting his sensitive mother.

As soon as the announcement came down, my thoughts turned to the recipes that Souplantation had posted on their website. My hubby then told me other Souplantation fans were now scrambling to save or print them out. I printed the ones I could find.

In order to preserve them for myself, I am posting them here, starting with one of my favorites. Enjoy.

Asian Ginger Broth

Time: 30 minutes

Yield: 16 cups

Ingredients

4 tsp. Finely minced ginger

3 tsp. Finely minced garlic

2 tbsp Canola oil

6 tbsp Cornstarch

16 cups Cold water

6 tbsp Vegetarian base

Optional toppings:

Shredded carrots

Green onions

Chopped spinach

Sliced mushrooms

Wonton Strips

Cubed tofu

Shredded chicken

1. Combine ginger, garlic and canola oil in a large pot and saute for 5 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, whisk together the cornstarch with 2 cups of the cold water until it is dissolved.

3. Add cornstarch mixture, vegetarian base and remaining water to the pot and bring to a boil.

4. Reduce heat and simmer for at least 15 minutes.

5. Add salt and pepper to taste.

6. Top with any of the optional toppings you desire.

* Editors note: When I made this soup, I checked to see what the results were after the 15 minutes of simmering. I have an electric stove that does not get very hot. The broth was still watery, far from done. But I allowed it to simmer for most of the hour. The results were great. I ended up with a light, tasty broth.