Natalee's Blog

Who came up with the idea that a whole baked cake should come out of a pan in one perfect piece? I know—it happens all the time—but not in my kitchen!

I sprayed and floured my round pan, even though that seemed like overkill for a nonstick pan, and it still wouldn’t release its prey (the cake). An entire chunk remained.

I wanted to create a Martha-Stewart-esque dessert for my friends, so I thought, “I’ll salvage it by using frosting to glue the rogue piece back on.”

This worked for approximately two minutes, at which point my too-loose frosting gave way and the broken piece slid off in slow motion.

“Fine!” I said. “I’ll swallow my pride and take an ugly cake to the party.”

Cakes really were never meant to come out of the pans in which they were baked, except in 3½-inch square or triangular pieces, with the aid of a spatula. Forget pretty; I’m sticking with in-the-pan cakes.

Note: Despite my extreme irritation with the imperfect cake, it tasted delicious. You’ll find the recipe here.

I almost went postal in Michael’s craft store on November 10. Well, “postal” in the sense of yelling in public—to no one. Being the type of person who believes people shouldn’t play Christmas music until at least December 1 doesn’t serve me well in this country. I was looking at overpriced Styrofoam spheres when I heard the chorus: “…’tis the season….” (I’ve subconsciously blocked out which song it was.)

Tis not the season! I thought. Then I pictured myself yelling that, right there in the Styrofoam aisle. In my daydream, passers-by wholeheartedly agreed with me and began chanting, “No Christmas music before December!” The jinglebell-necklace-wearing employees began to nod, and one headed straight for the source of the music.

Okay, so my daydream didn’t actually go that far, but I do wish we could enjoy seasons in their time. This is autumn, and that means Thanksgiving. Maybe Americans have a problem being content in each season of life, and it carries over to a desire to hear Christmas music at the first sign of snow. That happened in September this year, and one of my Facebook friends posted that he was listening to Christmas music.

I think I’ll wear earplugs whenever I’m in stores that play Christmas music—at least until December. So don’t be surprised if you say hi to me and I appear to ignore you. Hey, I’m just trying to avoid going postal!

“Could you walk me to my cabin?”

I looked up from my dirty dishes at the campground sink and stared at the woman.

“Uh . . . sure,” I said, setting my borrowed electric skillet on the shelf. Only one explanation came to mind: Maybe she wants to get me away from my skillet so someone  can steal it!

Realizing the ludicrousy of the thought, I turned and asked where the cabin was.

“Over there,” she said. We stood staring at each other until she finally volunteered, “I’m a little . . . liquored up.”

“Oh. Do you want me to–” Before I could reach her arm to steady her, she intercepted my hand and held on with a warm grasp.

I tried to hide my shock and push aside thoughts of what onlookers would think. She walked through the grass with surprising steadiness, and I noticed she was sock-footed.

We’d gone only a short distance when she announced that a cabin was hers. “You going to be alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, heading to the door.

I walked back to my (untouched) electric skillet and finished washing dishes in disbelief. How could she be drunk at 6:45 p.m. in a campground? At Yosemite—one of the most beautiful spots in America?

Maybe she got in a fight with her boyfriend and he went off on a long hike. Maybe she came here with all that alcohol to escape some problem at home.

I’ll never know the story behind the drunk woman at Yosemite, and I doubt she remembers the hand-holding-with-a-stranger incident. It reminded me that anywhere I go, people are hurting. No matter the beauty of the surroundings, someone is probably struggling enough to want to shut them out. Will I be quick to offer a helping hand?