Capturing Zen

Ah. Sweet relief.

There is a beveled excitement in life, so many things to try, to learn, to be about. And yet, I maintain the odd belief that I can fit more into a day than the clock allows. Though the absurdness of this is proven daily, I can't seem to learn the simple lesson of the boundaries of time.

Every morning is a misty map of possibilities, dawning into focus. I hit the deck at five bells and proceed directly to an hour of exercise. I seldom repeat the calisthenic routine; “rut” and “Kari” do not dwell in compatible universes.

My brain is wide awake in the early hours of the day, and exercising allows me to flexicate both mind and body. I frame the order in which the day will evolve. I get the general outline right, but quickly slip into a variation of preconceived notion-sickness, something akin to magic thinking.

For instance, ignoring any limitation, I envision cutting out a quilt before lunch. In my mind's eye everything is all set up, ready to go. The fabrics in my fantasy are without wrinkles or folds. What a marvelous think-way to start the day! I seriously like where I am, both mentally and physically, between five and six in the morning.

Then the phone rings and one of my schools needs a sub. I need to put away the pile of stuff on top of the sewing machine. My PDA alarm warns me of an appointment. Oops! I'd better get out of these workout clothes and into the tub. Whatever the interruption, I'm either not geographically located near a sewing machine or a quilt, or I am tending to other duties as they arise before me. It's noon, and I didn't get the quilt cut out.

The beauty of this system is, I can fantasize the whole, peaceful, spirit-renewing scene like clockwork. The five a.m. folly. When the day actually produces some quilting time, I am all the more appreciative of it. My heart rate, breathing, mental acuity, and spiritual strength are in synch. Enlightened. Intuitive. Meditative. Zen.

I recently anointed and knighted myself The Cake Mistress. As most people around me know, cake is my favorite food, and I don't even think it's officially a food. The ingredients in cake are certainly related to food, but the combination that makes them cake tends to remove them from the realm of sustenance and into the realm of near licentiousness. Well, not all cakes can make that claim, but The Cake Mistress's cakes can!

I don't dawdle in false modesty when it comes to my cakes. I'm a picky cake eater, so if I think it's good, it's good. Crowning myself The Cake Mistress seemed obvious to me. I created The Cake Mistress as a vehicle by which I can coo over and compliment the chef, that being me, whenever I get a taste of one of my own really, really good cakes. Admittedly, this braggadocio is a little awkward for the initiate.

Cake Taster: OoooOoo! MmmmMMM! That is soooooo good!

Me: I know.

Cake Taster: Wow, I think that's the best cake I've ever tasted!

Me: The Cake Mistress knows what she's doing.

Cake Taster: The Cake Mistress? Where is she?

Me: You're talking to her.

The history of The Cake Mistress comes from my authentic need to occasionally eat a piece of divinely good cake. About fifteen years ago, I acquired a nagging urge for a dark chocolate cake with dark chocolate icing, and I was often disappointed by what I found in my regional cake-world. I didn't want to have to leave the Midwest over cake.

But I'm just being silly. We have the cakes of my dreams in the Midwest, but they're usually in big cities. Potluck cakes often come from The Cake Doctor cookbook. Lots of times they're fabulous fakes, like some of my diamond-wink-wink jewelry. I wanted real-food, made-from-scratch cakes at my disposal. Guess I'll just have to make 'em myself, I reasoned.

I went in search of a recipe for chocolate cake. I found one, and after I made it several times and toyed with the balance, I got it right. Rich, moist, dense, it was my first stop on a trip to paradise.

The next rich, moist, dense cake was a winner the first time around. I found a recipe for carrot cake from a very reliable source. I tried it out on friends we'd invited for dinner, and the smacking sounds around the table when dessert was served bordered on the grotesque. I've never had to alter that recipe one iota, and with the dark chocolate cake and the carrot cake successes, I had uncovered the heretofore undocumented cake-baking gene.

I began voraciously reading cake recipes. I've always been partial to non-fiction anyway, so I wasn't alarmed. I would try some of the recipes, and found a pattern in the ones that weren't just good, they were stupid-good. Stupid-good is my description for how perfect some cakes can be. Rich, moist, dense. Stupid-good.

This sort of surprised me. I am a child of the 60's cartoons and television shows, where the virtues of light, airy cakes were extolled. Beaver or Opie could get into big heck if they slammed a door at the wrong time near June's or Aunt Bea's ovens. There went another 60's sitcom falsehood to wad up and trash. My cakes aren't light. In fact, the recipes I've tried for cakes that are light are boring, boring, boring. Why would you waste your cake calories on some light and airy impostor?

Self-taught and tutored by The Peg, I can now scan a recipe and decide whether it's a keeper or a bore. Most of the time, that is. I recently had a cake-tasting session for a lemon cake I was auditioning, and it wasn't up to snuff.

So, as my repertoire of rich, moist, dense cakes grew, so did my need to unload a few of the leftovers on friends. No one complained, like, ever. I soon discovered I didn't want a whole cake around the house, I just wanted to eat one good piece of cake a couple of times a month. A routine developed where I would make birthday cakes for whomever told me they had a birthday coming up. I figured if I gave them a cake, they'd feel obligated to give me just one piece. All I really wanted was one piece, or maybe two, so Hubba could have one. I kept getting better and better. Again, pardon the lack of modesty, but we've covered that ground already.

Someone, and I truly don't remember who, suggested I sell my cakes. Really? I mean, I know they're good, but I have no desire to start decorating cakes, which may be what people would expect. I don't even have a desire to eat decorated cakes. Rich, moist, dense is my idea of cake, and I don't require buttercream roses or carrots, unless they're on top of a rich, moist, dense cake.

I tested the concept. I picked out a few people and events and made cakes. I fed cake to the unsuspecting, and before they had a chance to compliment the cake (which they would do for the presence of the fat and calories alone), I asked them if they would buy a cake like that. I got a unanimous, euphoric thumbs-up. I told them the cakes are labor intensive and the ingredients are expensive, so would they pay extra for that in a cake? It's not like people can't get cake around here. They just couldn't get one of these. The usual response was, “I just want to know I can get one of these when I get a nagging urge for one.”

Déjà VU, Baby! I feel that pain!

I thought about it. I researched the market for good cakes made by home bakers. I talked to Shirley, the local cheesecake guru, who has been selling cheesecakes for a number of years. She was encouraging, and we agreed we'd cooperate and send each other business. If someone asks me for cheesecake, I give them Shirley's number, Shirley does likewise with requests to her for layer cakes.

The next step into this madness was finding a supplier for Hollywood bakery boxes. You know the boxes, the pink bakery boxes for “The Hollywood Touch”. I scu-reamed in delight, and the decision was made. I would sell cakes.

More specifically, The Cake Mistress decided to sell cakes. I have no idea where I came up with the name of my alter ego, but when I was writing a brochure with cake flavors and descriptions in it, I got all third-person and bashful. When I say braggy things about my cakes, they just come from my mouth and float invisibly in the air. When I get them out of my head and into black and white (or in the case of my brochures, black and pink), it's different. It's better to just blame The Cake Mistress.

So, here I go again. I now have a state-licensed, cake-baking kitchen. I'm getting busier, baking and subbing and doing all the other fun stuff I think I can do. I hope to get it narrowed down to baking cakes and quilting, which means I'll get to quilt -- the cake baking is just the icing, so to speak. A life of rich, moist, dense cakes, and vibrant, provocative, functional quilts. Zen.

Even this busy life presents moments to capture Zen. When I'm handing out samples of cake at the Co-op, sharing the little treats is a bonus to seeing friends work together, or meet there for Kristin's noon-time special. I capture Zen. When the home schoolers ring my doorbell, bringing in a whirl of lint, laughter, and learning, I capture Zen. This evening, a quiet time to work on T-man's quilt, will envelope me in my Zen, where my soul rejoices and I give thanks for my busy life. The memory of flute choir rehearsals and children's singing voices will accompany my reverie, and I'll thank God for the blessings this busy life brings.

Ah. Sweet relief.

Copyright © November 2005 Kari E.O. Burns