I called a friend today. Not just a friend friend, but one of those friends who reminds you why you’re alive. One of those friends that cause you to breathe and smile and feel astonished that you’ve had the good fortune of finding them in your lifetime. Our chat started out like any other chat. We touched on the basics of daily schedules and pet-loving. Chatted about families and friends. Cracked a few clever jokes. The conversation was nice. Everytime I talk to this friend of mine, it’s nice. Really just great nice.
As we talked, I realized how much I love that she loves me. I realized how much good she brings out in me. Then, I realized how this conversation of ours was far from a realistic reflection of how the last three weeks of my life have been. Can I be honest with you? I asked. And I opened up to her a little, afraid she’d see how terrifyingly broken I really am. Afraid she’d rethink this friendship of ours. In return, she offered an honest peek into her last three weeks. It inspired me to be even more honest. I told her about grappling with fear, faith, fights. Let her see inside hidden caverns I’d tried to cover. And, before you can say bobshrunkel, the two of us were sharing bitter and sweet. Tasting the essence of our souls. The worries of our hearts. Seeing each other for who we really are, and finding a deep, abiding admiration for each other. An admiration which comes only when one is willing to strip their insides raw and offer the entrails up for inspection.
I’m not familiar with conversations like this. Having spent much of my life putting on appearances, smiling through pain, baking cookies instead of crying, trying to tell myself that I can hide the realities of my heart behind a well-schlacked veneer, afraid of what even my dearest friends might say when they see my true worries and fears and wonderings, this thing called being honest with myself–about myself–is a new frontier. Suddenly, I’m admitting my ashes. Revealing scars. Accepting imperfect.
This morning I met with a surgeon. Having recieved a worrisome MRI report last week about a lump on my upper thigh, I’ve spent the last eight days in absolute, tummy-knotted angst. Based on the first doctor’s diagnosis, things weren’t looking pretty. After two nights of twisting myself through nightmarish what-if scenarios, I got real. I cried. I screamed. I watched people walk on the street and wanted to spit at them for being healthy and happy. I’m a stickler for justice, and the world suddenly felt tremendously unjust. Here I was–at the age of 34–having to consider leaving this blessed existence while people much older (and significantly less adorable) than me bought candy bars and smoked three-packs a day. It was all so unfair, and infuriating, and scary. Downright scary.
Yet, in all this, I blogged happy. Cookies…yay! Salads…yay! Sugar, butter, love love love. You’d never have guessed. How could you?
I didn’t let you in. Didn’t fess up about a single real-world concern. Didn’t admit my humanness. I didn’t because I don’t. I’ve been so afraid to admit that I wear barefeet in the kitchen and bake in a stove bought from Craigslist that I’ve schlacked who I really am into someone that I’m really not. I don’t wear yellow heels in the kitchen. My husband doesn’t wear argyle sweaters. Heck, I don’t even cook with an apron on. You can’t begin to imagine how many chocolate stains I have on the seat of my jeans.
I worry about lumps on my legs and moles on my arms. I don’t think I can be clever enough to fill up a second cookbook. My kids are running around the house while I write this blog post. I wish I had dinner in the oven. There’s soy sauce spilled in the fridge and I haven’t wiped it up in over a week. I hate wiping up soy sauce from the fridge. There you go. The real me.
By Friday of last week, my inital reaction to the bad-MRI news morphed from an ugly anger to surreal peace. I woke early with a reassurance that it would be okay if the lump on my leg was cancer. I’d have time to teach my kids a few more things. Write a few blog posts. Make videos to say goodbye. Mostly, I was grateful for time to leave behind a legacy of the real me. I wanted almost desperately enough time to tell my children what I’m beginning to learn about the power of authenticity, honest admissions, sharing your soul with people you love and trust. About the strength of being just human.
Human. Some of the most divine moments in these last three weeks have been when I ask people to share their stories, then tell them mine. When Shaina tells me the lumps are nothing to worry about and that’s that. When Holly says, “Honey, I’m so proud of where you are. It’s okay.” When Noodles says, “Oh, sis. I know. It’s been a helluva week for all of us.” When Jessica says “whatever took you so long to say something?” When my sweet friend Bethany, after hearing all the ashes of my heart this afternoon, didn’t say goodbye. She said “I love you.”
The surgeon inspected me today, looked over the MRI. I was accumulating polka-dots of fat, he said. Not cancer. He couldn’t understand why the referring physician had put up such a stink. I couldn’t shake a feeling of gratitude. I was immensely grateful to have faced down the possibility of dying for two weeks straight. Rather than feeling upset about two weeks wasted, or relieved for cleared heath, I felt simply…grateful. Grateful for every single day–no matter how many days that ends up being. Grateful for earth beneath my feet and sun above my hair. Grateful for husband, family, friends who don’t say goodbye. They say I love you.
With this newfound understanding of the power of honest authenticity, I offer you a deeper commitment to truth. I don’t want to tell you how to live. I don’t want you to think I’ve got all the answers, or have the perfect kitchen, or have figured out some secret to supreme living. I do, however, want to hear your stories and tell you mine. I want to understand where you’re coming from. Appreciate you where you are. Cheer you on. Tell you how much I believe in your heart. Celebrate humanity with all it’s imperfections. In short, I want to live more fully, taking everyone and every experience as it comes. As it is. Beauty, sorrow, joy, pain, color, bitter, sweet.
I suppose you could say, this is the new and unimproved Cheeky Kitchen. Ashes and all.
Toasted Marshmallow Cupcakes
Ingredients
FOR THE CUPCAKES:
- 1 stick butter
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 egg
- 1 egg yolk
- 1 1/3 cup flour
- 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
- 1/4 teaspoon baking soda
- 1/2 cup milk
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
- 1/4 teaspoon Vanilla Butter & Nut flavoring
- 1/2 teaspoon Coconut flavoring
- 1/2 teaspoon Butter Flavoring
FOR THE BUTTERCREAM:
- 2 sticks butter
- 1 bag 2 pounds powdered sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
- 1/4 teaspoon Vanilla Butter & Nut flavoring
- 1/2 teaspoon Coconut flavoring
- 1/2 teaspoon Butter Flavoring
- 4-6 Tablespoons milk
Instructions
FOR THE CUPCAKES:
- In an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat together the butter, sugar, and eggs until ridiculously light and fluffy.
- Add the flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Beat just until incorporated. Add the milk then continue to beat until a soft batter comes together.
- Spoon into muffin tins lined with cupcakes wrappers, filling each just barely over 1/2 way full.
- Bake in an oven preheated to 350 degrees for 17-19 minutes, or JUST until the cupcake springs back to the touch.
- Remove from the oven and cool completely before frosting with Toasted Marshmallow Buttercream.
FOR THE BUTTERCREAM:
- Whip all ingredients together until light and fluffy. Spread atop cooled cupcakes.
TO TOAST MARSHMALLOWS:
- Heat one burner on your stovetop to high.
- Place a large marshmallow on a bamboo skewer and hold very close to the heated burner until golden brown.
- Remove from the skewer and allow to cool before placing atop frosting cupcakes.
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