Baking in a Fit of Passion

By Kathleen Daelemans

I’m pretty sure I’m voting for
Hillary Clinton and it has everything to do with my Miss Daisy. What a dear. So polite was, this Miss Daisy-doesn't-need-a-driver, that she didn't even acknowledge my bumper was stuck fast onto hers when indeed it was, this last Saturday past, in the middle of mid-morning traffic.

It was nearly teatime. I was on my way home from the fabric store with my Mom. Of course I call her "my" Miss Daisy but I've never met her, even after the fact now. Everything happened so quickly. 

I was first in line in a left hand turn lane at a green light. I inched out a little as one is taught in drivers’ education school to do. So heavy was the traffic on this fine Saturday afternoon, that I never had the opportunity to make my turn.

In retrospect, perhaps there may have been a chance, or two, for me to make the turn, but so thoroughly engrossed in conversation over the pros and cons of making a new cape out of the $99 a yard, Emanuel Ungaro, barely purple, sugar plum, cashmere I had to pass on versus the much more affordable, yet equally delicious $25 a yard, Ellen Tracy, Heather Grey and (properly*) Whipped Cream White, double sided wool I chose, that I never saw the light go from yellow to red. So there I was, stuck in the middle of a very busy intersection. What’s a girl to do?

Da da-da-da

I sprung into action is what I did. I whipped out a sleeve of Thin Mints from my purse, offered a few to my mother and put on my Girl Scout thinking cap. With cars coming at me in all directions, I made my move.  I put my car into reverse and very, very carefully inched my truck back towards the car behind me. It was none other than (the famed about town) Miss Daisy’s Very Cherry Berry, Enchanted, Ruby Red, Flying, Driving, Time, Machine.

 I’m not sure of the make or model of Miss Daisy’s car because women of all fabulocity, brought up with the Gorgeous Girl virtues and values of Divas raised in Diva-dom, do not know a thing about auto-mobiles.

Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of Meringue

From what I could see of her in my rear view mirror, Miss Daisy was just darling. She looked to be about 80. The first thing I noticed were her glasses. Each rim was the circumference of a showy Kentucky Derby Hat. When she moved, they shimmered with the brilliance of a million diamonds. Miss Daisy's posture was portrait perfect. She sat poised for the light to change, her hands were safely in the ten and two position on the steering wheel at all times. 

Miss Daisy had just come from the beauty parlor. Her lovely locks had that shear, blueberry granita hue and that, Chock-full-of-nuts coffee can curler stance. Her hair was whipped into Royal Meringue Majesty and would, no doubt, last until her standing appointment, next Saturday.

Struggling to keep my mind off fashion, I turned to look over my right shoulder (to back up as safely as possible) and it happened. Our eyes met. Miss Daisy smiled at me. It was a knowing smile. As though she’d done the very same thing a dozen times or more (got caught out in intersections). Miss Daisy made me feel warm all over. As though she was wrapping me up in a protective handmade quilt she’d stitched herself.

And then I realized what she was communicating to me, “Of course it’s only natural to have to back your car out of the middle of an intersection and back up into the very same turning lane you were exiting out of only moments ago.” Miss Daisy was my Turning Lane Guardian Angel.

"Whatever you do, don't be a man about such things as fender benders."

Her adoring smile and those Kentucky Derby, saucer sized, blinged out glasses of hers, made me feel as though everything would be okay. I pictured myself rolling out a batch of homemade Thank You Pecan Sandies for her right then and there. But before I finished getting the cookies on the trays to bake, my back fender was imposing on her front fender.

My eyes went straight to Miss Daisy’s face. I was beside myself with grief at the possibility that I may have brought any kind of harm to Miss Daisy and further, to her automobile. I was embarrassed and concerned. I was frustrated and on edge. But wouldn’t you know it. Miss Daisy sat there with the grace of a First Lady, waiting for the light to change.

She didn’t frown. She didn’t shake her fingers. She didn’t make a line of traffic wait through four lights while she inspected every square inch of her front bumper for damages. She didn’t spew a vicious diatribe about my driving skills and she most certainly did not throw her car into park, race to my vehicle and threaten my life. She was not a man about my mishap.

Chock-Full-of-Nuts Coffee Can Girler Power

Miss Daisy chose not to acknowledge that I had hit her car. There was no damage. There was nothing to get upset about. Nothing to swear about. Nothing to roar about. Miss Daisy had things to do. The light turned green. Miss Daisy gave a smile and a Prom Queen wave and then hurriedly returned her waving hand to the 2 o’clock position. And then she disappeared. Miss Daisy was gone.

She made my day. And she changed my life. How very civilized and refreshing that she didn’t give two hoots about the car. Her car. Her very well known, Very Cherry Berry, Enchanted, Ruby Red, Flying, Driving, Time, Machine that I almost ruined.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could all learn to be more patient, more tolerant and more forgiving of one another? Well, wouldn't it? I know I can't wait to be 80. I mean, if you're in such a hurry that you don't care about someone backing into your dream car, where are you going I wonder?

Bake in a Fit of Passion (You Heard Me)

* If you're going to splurge on real whipped cream, do not over whip it. There's nothing worse. Properly whipped cream, that is cream to enhance a wicked slice of Gateau Victoire or a slice of Homemade pie, or a Hot Fudge Sundae (with very fine  or homemade sauce and ice-cream) or a cup of divine coffee, should not hold it's shape.

The cream should be as light as heavy thickened milk which is probably a description of no help at all. It should fall off the spoon (which, when you're serving yourself  should be a rather large-ish  spoon). The cream should be whipped by hand in an ice cold bowl with an ice cold balloon whisk.

Once the cream has thickened a little and is almost slightly thickened, you should sweeten it with vanilla sugar (that is sugar to which you've added vanilla bean pods you discarded in your sugar bin after having used up the insides of each pod (the tiny beads that run along the insides of the vanilla pod) in some extraordinary recipe or another. Preferably one you were hurriedly preparing in anticipation of a romantic tryst with a cherished loved one. All the better if you ask me.

And if you haven't done that in awhile (baked in a fit of passion), especially if you're in a long term relationship or whatever - you know what I mean - it's none of my beeswax - what on earth are you waiting for? The sky will not fall in. The stack of bills will not get smaller. Life does not get better "when" and "if".

So cook and bake and play in the kitchen. There's nothing like a hot meal comprised of healthy ingredients to bring smiles and joy to the home and the heart. And what better motivation to exercise than the teensy bit of healthy guilt that comes with a dollop of real whipped cream?