Letters to the Editor

This post is going to be a little different. I’ve decided to try something that I’ve seen countless other people do and see how well it works. Here’s the idea:
All over the internet I’ve seen posts written by people that are sort of like “letters to the editor”. Basically, you write a letter to someone or something that has frustrated/angered/generally wronged you without sending it, and this process helps you get over whatever it is you’re upset about.

Let’s see how well it works, shall we?

Letter #1

Dear Printer,

You have one job, one single task, to reach fulfillment during your questionable market value lifespan of three to five years. I was led to believe that one mission in life wasn’t so much to ask, but apparently I was wrong.

I changed your cartridge.

I cleaned your printer head as per my instruction manual and online trouble shooting references.

WHY are you making nasty lines on my pages?

If I have to run one more diagnostic alignment, you’re going to become very closely acquainted with the baking soda I keep in the bottom of the trash can.

Just thought you should know,
A Concerned Customer

Letter #2

To Whomever May Drive in Front of Me:

I don’t know why your daily tasks aren’t as important as mine. I don’t get out that often, but when I do, I would like to drive a little faster than fifteen miles per hour under the speed limit. I promise you; no one is going to pull you over for driving the speed posted on the signs alongside the highway. They are there as a guideline and can be very useful if you are not aware how fast you could be going.

And how do you manage to know exactly when I leave the house? And why are you always going the same place that I am?

Do you realize how much I hate passing people on the highway?

Sincerely,

The Person Who Thinks About Ramming Your Bumper

(Seriously. Gas. Pedal.)

Letter #3

Dear Restaurant Employees,

I know I may be a little bit pickier than some people because I worked in restaurants for quite some time, but I don’t think its too much to ask that you put on gloves when you scoop my ice cream or grab my cookie. Do you realize how many germs are on the change that you’re digging through in that register? Not to mention what bodily fluids could already be on your sweaty hands.

Wash them as well, please. I know. I know. It’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t something I already did myself.

With Concern,
Don’t Make Me Come Over that Cash Register

P.S. On the flip side, this is actually very good for my diet because knowing that you will be filthy, I get desserts a lot less often!

- - -

Now, don’t we all feel better?!

The Tale of the Dishwashing Monster

This story begins as many others do - on a normal day with a mundane task. This story is also like a regularly repeated television show. Same bat time. Same bat channel. Allow me to explain.

At our home, we do not have a dishwasher. I have two hands, a sink, some soap, and some water. Just like the pioneers did it. I consider it to be one of my ultimate sacrifices in getting married, but I’m also a tad on the dramatic side.

In my household, its also a normal occurrence that I am the one doing the dishes. Surprise, surprise. Sometimes I think male anatomy might have an aversion to water.

Since day one, my cat has also been interested in my daily dish washing events. I’ve come to believe that she hears the clink and clang of porcelain against glass, and her mind twists the sound into some kind of medieval plea for help. I have tried to reassure her again and again that the pie plate is not in need of saving, but it has a fruitless effort.

As time progressed from the beginning of my marriage, she became more and more interested in the coming and going of things in the sink, and she began a ritual. As soon as I turn on the tap and add some soap, my heroic kitty rushes into the kitchen and sits at my feet - ever vigilant on the off chance that I will let her people go.

When several minutes elapse, she will then proceed to meow a plea and make a requesting circle around my ankles, begging for the prisoners release. If I pay her no attention and continue to torture the silverware with my scrubbing sponge, she reaches a breaking point.

It is at this time that my own precious cat will turn against me in a silent rage. Sitting sharply with her back straight and her ears flicked back, she decides that I am at fault. I have defied her commands, and I have to be treated to warlike situations.

Now, you need a tad more information to understand this next part because no regular cat could impose such cruelty with quite the force that she does. I took her on the scales today just to reaffirm my knowledge. My precious kitten weighs a whooping 19.4 lbs. Of that weight, her tail is less than a pound, but it is the most lethal next to her claws and teeth.

During the dish washing phase if all of her pleas are ignored, my sweet little kitty resorts to smacking my legs with her tail, and because she is so large it tends to leave bruises on my ankles. Originally, I told people what these bruises where from, but the story has become far too long to repeat on a day-to-day basis. So now, I tend to hold in my shame and just tell people that I ran into something.

I get fewer stares that way.

One day I pray that I will have a dishwasher of my very own and that my cat and I will be on even terms in every area of the house, but for now, I’m stuck with bruises and trying to do the dishes in the dark so she doesn’t notice.

Pound Cake

It’s funny how having a little history can make a whole story better. It’s like putting the joke before the punch line, the once upon a time in front of a fairytale, or the cart in front of the horse. History is a grand old thing. It keeps us from repeating mistakes. It teaches us lessons and provides enrichment into culture and diversity.

And in my case, it makes a perfect pound cake.

To understand this story, ironically, you need a little history. Sometimes I think of myself as a baker - not by trade but by love. I love to stand at a stove or an oven and create things out of flavor and texture. However, I do have a fatal flaw that sneaks up on me and ruins even the best of my efforts.

Timing.

I am so impatient that I can’t even wait for eggs to cook long enough to scramble - mine are always dry and limp. So, when it comes to baking something beautiful and simple like a pound cake I have always gotten so wrapped up in the timing that I usually end up causing the darn things to go flat.

Years ago, I actually decided that I just wasn’t meant to be a pound cake baker and gave them up completely! However, I found myself intrigued at the idea of trying again (I think I have issues with ever really letting things go… I mean… is there anything wrong with actually being able to do everything). My grandmother offered me an old bundt pan that she was planning to throw out.

It’s old and a horrible shade of 1950’s style yellow on the outside with a blackened inside only achieved from years of labor and love. At first glance, it is as innocent a pan as any other, but closer inspection reveals the depth of creation born from it.

It is just the piece of history I needed to make a perfect pound cake. With a light coat of oil, I entrusted my grandmother’s old pan with an airy sour cream pound cake recipe and slid it into the oven with a prayer.

Turns out, family charm was just the piece of history I needed. It was a beautiful cake, and I’ve already made one more since this one with great success.

So that’s my lesson for today. History is history. It should be embraced and remembered for everything that it was meant to be.