Two stories about Randy for the price of one. That’s what you’re getting today.
Oh stop with the applause. It’s embarrassing.
The reason I’m going to tell you two stories in one post is because I have too much to tell you about my brotha-of-the-same-motha to squeeze into 13 days. And just so you know, he rolled his eyes every time I said, “Hey there, brotha-of-the-same-motha!” Suffice it to say, he rolled his eyes a lot. So, the other day when I saw that I had more story cookies to share than I had days remaining I thought I’d just pick between these two but now I realize if I’m forced to choose I’ll explode and so to avoid the carnage I’m going with both.
I’ll wait while you go get your morning coffee. Or tea is you’re a woozy-pants.
Oh and wait. There’s something else I should say at about this point in our Remember Randy Fest. Here it is. My brother was human. Like you and like me, Randy was flawed and imperfect. There were places of brokenness in my brother stemming from a life lived with severe depression long before ALS entered the scene and so there were days when he was a moody enigma. Nor was our relationship as brother and sister all pony rides and moonbeams. Like the two stubborn bulls that we were we argued and opinionated ourselves into a lather but we also loved one another enough that we were willing to stumble our way through the clumsy dance of “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you.”
I’m exposing this little bit from the shadow side because Randy would want me to be honest about it. He’d go nuts over the pedestal I’ve built for him in my heart and memories and that I paint him as the perfect brother. But here’s the thing. My brother never fully understood that part of why I adored him as much as I did was for the very reason that his personal dark nights of the soul led him to respond to others suffering with extraordinary compassion, care, and generosity. I see the photos of people he took on his travels as indicative not only of his appreciation for people from every walk of life but also his identification with them in their difficulties. When I think of Randy, how he not only coped with his personal battles but how he cared about everyone he encountered whatever their story, background, or baggage, my mind turns to the familiar words, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9). That’s right. I’m quoting Scripture.
She shoots, she scores!
Anyway, I just wanted needed to say that. Randy never lived a perfect life but he lived a very human one which is all I’m trying to do and all I hope of those I love. And those I like. And those who push my buttons.
Wow. And I haven’t even started into the first of two stories. Time for a refill on that coffee or :::cough cough::: tea.
All the stories I’ve shared up to this point have been from our early childhood but beginning today I’m going to fast forward to a time in our lives that resembled adulthood, more or less on any given day.
For the first 15 years I was hooked up to a computer, beginning in the mid-1980′s, I never needed to buy one since every computer I had during those years was built by Randy. Now remember, back in those early days (when dinosaurs roamed the earth and one size really did fit all) a computer was a bit more intimidating with it’s Chevy-sized monitor covered in strings of coded commands on a stark black screen. Those were the days when our brother-sister phone conversations usually consisted of Randy instructing me to “format your floppy, scan your disk, start up a batch file” while at my end of the phone I’d reply “Repeat that again, What do you mean, huh?“ Sometimes he’d phone in the middle of the day. “I’m on my way!” which meant that in a few minutes he’d be walking through my office door at the church where I worked and opening up the guts of my computer tower to fill an empty slot with a wired whosit or install the latest Windows Beta update. Side note: Randy was a beta tester in those days which meant by association I was one too, whether I wanted to be or not. And I did not.
Our family shares a number of stories involving Randy and technology, because as every member of our family ventured into computers it was Randy who answered our questions, retrieved our “lost” files, repaired our corrupted software, or talked us through a DOS command or system restore. He was our very own personal Geek Squad. Except he arrived in a classier car and he didn’t charge by the hour.
Randy and I made the huge leap from Windows to Mac around the same time, though if anyone’s keeping score I took the leap first as I often reminded him later when he became Apple-obsessed in all things and when I say all things I’m talking iMac, Airbook, Powerbook, iPhone, iPad and Apple TV.
With his tech toy addictionskill it wasn’t all that surprising when, during the last months of his life with his mobility progressively being compromised by ALS, he came to run his corner of the world through his iPhone. From his wheelchair with nothing up his sleeve other than that little 2.25 x 4.25 shiny black object Randy controlled nearly every light in the house and outside the house, the extensively complicated entertainment system, and even the outdoor water fountain. And it seemed as though he was always (triple emphasized with bold, italics, and underlining) reconfiguring the television remote controls so that every time I visited I had to go through a training seminar on how to just turn the television on.
Wait! I just realized….could this have been his 21st century version of his 20th century peanut butter sandwiches and vanilla-orange shakes? I think I just unraveled his devious plot! Smooth move brotha of the same motha!
Story 2 and then I’m done for the day, and this is a quickie but a goodie.
It’s about 25-30 years ago and I’m living with Randy at his house for a few months while I’m transitioning between homes of my own. Since I’m living with him and doing the cooking he decides, on his own without consulting me (not that I’m bitter), to volunteer the two of us to host the family Thanksgiving that year. Granted, I shouldn’t complain because at that time our entire family numbered around a mere 20 people while I think we’re currently hovering around 342 family members give or take a toddler or two. I have no idea where they’re coming from but just be sure to bring extra diapers if you decide to join us for Christmas.
Anyway, while I’ve always loved cooking I’d never done a Thanksgiving dinner before so I was reasonably nervous about it but when I told Randy I was apprehensive he told me not to worry because “I’ll help with the meal.” With this assurance I agreed and with Thanksgiving approaching Randy and I sat down to plan out the meal and divide up the meal. Here are the notes as best I remember them from our planning session:
Anita
roast turkey
mashed potatoes
stuffing
gravy
sweet potatoes
crescent rolls
Mom’s frozen salad
green salad
orange jello salad
pumpkin pie
pecan pie
That looks like a fair division of labor, don’t you think?
So like every other Thanksgiving chef du cuisine I spent the week before the main event consulting and comparing recipes, calculating quantities, and creating a color-coded time chart that began with putting the bird in the oven at 5:30 a.m. and ended at the slicing of the pumpkin pie eight hours later. The two days before Thanksgiving I hit 3 or 4 different stores/bakeries/florists to gather up all the ingredients and festive holiday decor. The night before Thanksgiving I neatly lined up all the ingredients to every recipe toward the back of the kitchen counter along with writing each part of the meal on a slip of paper that I then attached to the bowl, platter, or plate it would be served on. And yes, I’m obsessive compulsive but this is about Randy, not me.
So that’s what led up to this moment, this moment being a mere two hours before our entire family arrived and the ensuing chaos that always follows whenever two or more individuals with our shared bloodline are in the same general vicinity. I’m standing in the kitchen sweaty and nervous, juggling back and forth between basting the bird, peeling the potatoes, getting the water to a boil, and cutting up vegetables for the salad when Randy walks in. No. Let me retract that and say, “When Randy walks in cool and calm as a cucumber.” Walking over to the counter where the last of the remaining ingredients are lined up he picks up three cans (actually he picks up two of each for a total of nine cans but I wasn’t about to make that many cookies), places them on the kitchen island, looks at me with a grin, and if you knew Randy, you know the exact grin I’m talking about and says to me, his sister, “So…do you have the recipe for the green bean casserole? Or maybe you can just tell me how to make it?”
I suppose I shouldn’t complain.
After all, he set up the folding tables and chairs.
It was in his late teen’s and twenties that Randy was taken up by photography and like anything that drew his interest that could mean only one thing; he was going to go in to it full-throttle. In no time at all his bedroom became littered with books and magazines on photography and small yellow boxes of Kodak 64 Kodachrome film started turning up everywhere in the house.
Once Randy had learned everything there was to learn about how to take photographs, all that aperture, f-stop, light metering, composition kind of stuff, he decided just taking pictures wasn’t enough, which is what led to him dragging sheets of plywood and all sorts of odd bits of plastic and metal through the house so he could transform the basement spare room into a home photography darkroom.
Are you catching a vision of how cool Randy seemed to me as a little girl? Let’s reflect for a moment, shall we? I had a big brother who had sun/lemon/peroxide-bleached hair, was handsome as a rock star, could eat five peanut butter sandwiches at one time, drove a two horse chariot, and had his own darkroom. The coolness factor went sailing off the charts.
As you can know from my post yesterday Old Spice is a fragrance I associate with Randy but it’s no less true than with the liquid chemicals used in developing film. When Randy would fill the trays with liquid from those brown glass bottles of developing fluid the smell would fill our small basement. I loved the smell then and I love the memory of it now. As long as I turned off the hallway light, knocked on the darkroom door and waited for Randy to say, “Okay” he always let me come in.
Most of the time I’d sit on a high stool near him in the shadowy amber light of the darkroom while he dipped the film paper in one tray and then another until an image would slowly begin to appear. Sometimes he’d ask me to guess who or what it was before it was completely there. Then I’d watch as he clipped the dripping paper on a taunt string running over our heads. As he worked I’d ask questions about what he was doing and how this or that worked and as patiently as any brother could be with a younger sister, he’d try to explain things in a way I could understand. Or he’d tell me to be quiet and just watch. Actually, he told me that a lot and I suspect with good reason.
I loved that my brother had a darkroom, that he developed his own photographs and that he let me be there to watch him and see him make magic.
The other day I was looking through some of Randy’s photographs that years ago my dad had transferred to digital and as I looked through photo after photo, many of them from other countries he had traveled to with a pastor who was preaching along the way, something caught my eye. Among all Randy’s photographs only a small number were of the local scenery even though these were parts of the world he was seeing for the first time. Instead, the overwhelming majority of the photographs he took were of people, more of individuals rather than groups. Most were of children and the ancient elderly, and most were close-up images that captured little more than the expression on one face and the look in one pair of eyes. Looking through these old photographs I wasn’t surprised that his camera was focused almost exclusively on people. That was Randy. Noticing, caring about, reaching out, and building relationships with people. Individual people.
Including his baby sister.
A Few of Randy’s Photographs (automatic slideshow)
[ Before I jump into today's post I wanted to take a minute to thank everyone who've left comments regarding these posts on Randy. You'll never know how much your thoughtfulness and generosity of spirit means to me, and by extension to the rest of my family, and even though I can't fully expression my gratitude for you and for your comments, I want you to know I do.]
My handsome brothers.
No question about it. They were always good-looking. And it wasn’t just me who thought so.
“Oooooohhh, Carlie Cadonau is your brother?” “Yep.” “Oh, he’s so handsome!” “I know.”
“Your brother is Randy Cadonau?” “Yep.” “Sigh, he’s so cute!” “I know.”
How can you argue with the discerning observations of older teenage girls?
Today I don’t have a story about Randy as much as a quirky little memory about him. You know how it is. When you lose someone you love, even the most trivial bits about them become something special you can hold on to as a connection to them and to another time. So this is one of those insignificant little recollections and it’s just that because Randy was so handsome I thought you might appreciate me sharing one of his beauty secrets. This was one he practiced through his teens and early 20′s and so you too can incorporate it into own beauty regime I’ll wait while you go grab a pen and notebook.
Okay, here it is.
Comb ample quantities of Hydrogen Peroxide and freshly squeezed lemon juice in your hair. The comb must be a black plastic pocket size comb and the lemons squeezed directly over your head, using the comb to dislodge any stray lemon pulp or seeds. Now lay out in the sun until dusk or until your fair skin begins to blister, being sure to occasionally take a dip into a highly chlorinated pool followed by a re-application of peroxide and lemon juice. If you do this, you too can have sun-lighted hair with unnatural yellow streaks.
Family vacations in Palm Springs. Randy in baggy shorts and a white tee-shirt. Randy in flood level brown cords with a cotton shirt. Randy in dark framed glasses. Randy with sun-bleached hair that smelled like a lemon grove. He was so handsome and so cool.
But I guess for the sake of accuracy I should say, he smelled like a lemon grove splashed with Old Spice. Randy loved his Old Spice After Shave and every time he’d empty out a bottle he’d add it to his Old Spice bottle collection on the window ledge of his bedroom. One time I wanted to do something nice for my brother, so I took all the white glass Old Spice bottles from off his window ledge, washed and dried them in the bathroom sink and lined them up back up on the ledge, carefully spacing them an equal distance apart. As though they were valuable rare collectibles.
At least the memory of them is. Valuable I mean.
And since I included a couple photos of Randy’s brother Carl how could I not include a little pictorial presence of Randy’s other sister Barb? If the photo reveals anything it would be that I might have thought my sister was a bit of the bombdiggity like Randy.
Do you remember yesterday? I don’t mean in general because if the whole day has already faded from your memory then I’m afraid for you. Very afraid. What I mean is do you remember the story I told yesterday about the rabbit-eared television and Randy’s peanut butter sandwiches and orange-vanilla milkshakes? I ask because today’s story about Randy is an extension of yesterday’s story. It’s a story I tell often because it’s a memory I’ve always loved. I love it because it’s the kind of story about a big brother and a little sister that anyone would want to have as their own except they can’t have the story for themselves because it’s mine. And yes, that’s just how selfish I am.
So here’s how it goes…
On this one occasion I was seated securely on Dad’s side of the bed in the position of channel-choosing power when Randy offered a special exemption of grace. Just this one time, Randy said, I could go with him to the kitchen, make a snack, and when we returned to our parent’s bedroom I could enter first, thus retaining the right to determine what channels would light up the 3 ton television tube.
Too. Good. To. Be. True.
“You promise Randy?” “I promise Anita.”
I believed him. I should have known better. Shoulda Woulda Coulda.
And so off we went with Randy in the lead to the kitchen where we each began making our snacks. I have no idea what tasty nuggets I set about creating but given that we’re talking about the early to mid 1960′s it’s safe to assume no tofu or hummus was harmed in the process. My best guess and a safe bet would be two slices of toasted white bread, slathered in butter and buckling under a dissolving mountain of cinnamon sugar. With a glass of milk. Fat-laden WHOLE milk.
Whatever my intended snack, at some point I looked over at Randy and saw a twinkle in his eyes and a smirk on his lips that added up to one absolute and certain truth . . . if I had any chance of being first back to the bedroom I needed to abandon any morsel of a snack I had hoped to enjoy and run! And so I did even as Randy took off running immediately behind me. In a total adrenaline rush (perchance magnified by a dose of cinnamon sugar) as I crossed the threshold into Mom and Dad’s bedroom I instinctively reached behind me slamming their bedroom door shut with such force that the full length mirror mounted on the bedroom side of the door came crashing to the floor in pieces.
All that I’ve told you up to this point is just the build up. Here is where the real story begins. The story I treasure about a brother I cherish.
With shattered mirror glass all over the floor and my life passing me before me as I considered just how much trouble I was going to be in and how I could possibly lie, cheat, or steal my way out of any impending consequences Randy threw open the door while frantically asking “Are you okay?! Are you okay?!”
After I answered just as frantically that I wasn’t hurt, I poured out my fear of how much trouble I was going to be in when Mom and Dad found out. No doubt tears were involved, and as a side mention, tears were Randy’s undoing. Every time I cried around Randy, whether standing on a floor surrounded by shards of broken mirror or talking with him years later about the cruelty of what ALS had the nerve to do to my brother he’d respond the same way.
“Don’t cry Sis. It’s going to be okay.” And at least this time, it was going to be okay because he was going to make it okay.
We’d just begun gathering up the broken mirror glass from the floor when the phone rang. I answered, and there on the other end of the phone was Mom, telling me that she and Daddy would be home soon and asking what Randy and I were up to. Before I could say anything Randy reached out his hand to signal me to hand him the phone and I did, waiting for him to break the news about what had just happened. And that’s exactly what he did but with a twist.
“Hi Mom. I wanted to let you know before you got home that we accidentally shut your bedroom door too hard and the full length mirror came loose and shattered on the floor. Yes, we’re okay. No one got hurt and we’re just cleaning it up now.”
That was his version of the story. The alternate ending. I didn’t break the mirror. We broke the mirror.
But you know the real story. We didn’t break the mirror. I broke the mirror.
The reason I love this story so much isn’t because Randy saved me from some form of cruel and unusual parental punishment. That wasn’t our mom and dad’s forte. I would never have been spanked, grounded, or berated for the broken mirror. The worst I could have expected would have been a brief lecture meant to drive home the point that accidents can happen when I get too wound up and that would have been that. Why I dust this story off every chance I can is that it’s my earliest memory of Randy standing up for me, looking out for me, and having my back; something that he did over and over again for me and for so many others over the years. That’s the kind of brother and the kind of man Randy was. He wasn’t perfect but he was amazing. And when you needed him, he was there.
As kids my siblings and I spent a lot of time in our parent’s bedroom because that’s where our first television resided. That’s right. I’m talking way back in the days when there was only one television per household. Actually, it wasn’t the hardship you might think given that there were only four television channels and at any given time half those channels would be little more than snowy rolling static unless you had a particular knack for perfect rabbit ear placement. And yes, back then you’d actually hear exchanges like “Now move the right antenna just another inch to the left. No! My left! A little more. A little more. Can you raise it up any higher? Okay, now forward just a smidge and…..there! Perfect! Don’t move!”
Oh. And you had to get off your flabby behind, walk to the television set and turn one of several knobs if you wanted to switch channels, adjust the volume, or turn the power on and off. I know. Barbaric. How we survived those years of adversity is hard to fully grasp unless you lived through it yourself. Suffice it to say, we were pioneers. Remember us the next time you grab your remote to flip through 523 channels of brain candy.
As I said, one television per household wasn’t really a problem unless you had more than one child in the household and then all bets were off. Oh, it was fine for my brothers and sister because they were all in the same general age range and so their viewing preferences were semi-simpatico but throw a much younger sibling into the mix who wants nothing more in life than to watch The Wonderful World of Disney in peace and it’s a whole other story and not a pretty one. In the hope of avoiding conflict over television programming, my parents came up with a rule that whoever was in their room first would decide what would be watched until the time that they left the room, thus relinquishing the seat of power to the next person in line.
In theory it might sound good but it failed to take into consideration situations such as: the youngest child has control of the television according to the house rules when the. parents. leave. the. house. This is when upheaval and anarchy ensued as this fragile little flower of a girl was routinely picked up by her arms and legs by two older siblings who for the purpose of this story will be known as Barbara and Randy (names chosen completely at random, of course), carried out of the bedroom, and dropped in the hallway while being told, “Oh, you left Mom and Dad’s room. You lose your turn.” As long as they were willing to endure the aftermath of their actions, including but not limited to the cries and screams of their younger sibling and the repeated slamming and opening, slamming and opening of her bedroom door, this method for gaining power worked.
But when Randy and I were alone and I was in charge of the television, he had a more gentle and far more devious method for taking control of channel selection. It was insidious and cruel and would go like this:
I’d be sitting on one side of the bed happily watching the baby forest animals frolicking on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, when from the other side of the bed Randy would casually say, “I’m hungry. I think I’ll go make a snack. Be right back.” Just like that, the plan had been set into action. A nervous flutter would start up in the pit of my stomach but through sheer force of will I’d shake it off and turn my attention back to the two black bear cubs splashing in the mountain stream.
A few minutes would go by. The sound of cupboard doors shutting. The clanging of the utensil drawer. The freezer door opening. And then the sound. The blade of the pale yellow milkshake mixer whirling and twirling inside the the metal milkshake glass. A couple minutes more would pass before Randy returned. In one hand a plate with five, always five never four never six but always five peanut butter sandwiches stacked high, while in his other hand his pièce de résistance, a frozen concoction made with fresh orange juice and vanilla ice cream. I need to mention that this is the point in the story where it may become too disturbing for young children and pregnant women, because this is the very moment, with the smell of peanut butter thick in the air and the frost from the frozen orange shake just beginning to form on the drinking glass that Randy would turn to me and ask, “Oh do you want some? There’s more ice cream in the freezer and I left the peanut butter jar on the counter.”
Oh, he knew me so well. Wild Kingdom, The Wonderful World of Disney, and even Hobo Kelly stood no chance against Randy’s white bread and peanut butter sandwiches washed down by a thick ice cold double scoop vanilla ice cream and orange juice milkshake.
He could be so cruel and cunning, but please, don’t think less of him for me having told you this. In fact, pretend I said nothing. Just go. Go to the kitchen. And leave the remote on the coffee table. House rules.
The phone rang. It was dad calling from the shopping mall. I could hear the noise of the pre-Christmas shoppers in the background. “Honey, what do you want for Christmas?” “A race car set.” “Are you sure?” “Daddy, yes! Just like the one in the catalog!” That would be the Sears and Roebuck Christmas catalog, with dog-leafed pages and must-have toys desperately circled in thick red marker pen.
And Santa Daddy did not fail to disappoint. That would be me in my Christmas pajamas and Buster Brown bangs enjoying the fruit of my catalog circling and Randy in his “young Randy” standard issue brown corduroy pants, long sleeve cotton shirt and dark framed eyeglasses. Oh, and white socks that always showed because his brown cords were routinely worn at flood level. Whether it was a precautionary move on his part or an accidental shrinkage mishap, we may never know.
Now this is where it would be sweet for me to tell you that Randy stopped what he was doing to assemble the race car set just for me. But that’s not how the story went down. What happened before the photo of us peacefully racing cars was ever taken was that after Randy put the race car set together (with repeated requests that I give him a little space and stop touching everything!) he and my dad proceeded to race each other. On my race car track. With my race cars. For a loooooong time. To which I responded in true “young Anita” style with a give-it-my-all, hold-nothing-back hissy fit. On the floor. On my stomach. Fraying my arms and legs while bemoaning the rampant injustices threatening to destroy the world as we knew it.
If I start making things up just to heighten the impact of the story I’ll let you know but otherwise assume everything I tell you is true because it is.
So there I am, laying prostrate on the floor, face in the carpet, hands and feet pounding up and down in syncopated rhythm, and all the while screaming like my underpants were on fire. It was an Oscar award-winning performance, ripe with passion, fury and agony. Cue Randy. At some point during my wailing and gnashing of teeth, I became aware that my brother was standing over me. Literally. He was standing over me with one leg on either side of me. I know this because by this point I had repositioned myself on my back. The rough wool oriental carpet had apparently become too irritating against my tender young face.
Randy: Are you almost done?
Me: Waaaaaahhhhh!!!!
Randy: Okay, so when you’re done, let me know because I have your race car track put together and I fixed the car you broke.” Did I fail to mention that my dramatic scene had opened with me pounding my fist down onto one of the little race cars? Oh. My bad.
Having gotten my attention, Randy flashed me a smile edged with a smirk, and leaning down whispered, “This doesn’t make you look good Anita” and then, stepping over me walked off toward the kitchen, leaving me to sheepishly drag my sorry self up off the floor and over to my race car set where he joined me a few minutes later. We raced cars on and off the rest of the morning and he never again mentioned my Norma Desmond melt-down.
At first consideration this story might sound like it’s more about me than about Randy but really, doesn’t it say more about Randy when you know what he had to put up with in the way of a baby sister?
I thought so too.
And just so you know, Randy not only raced electric race cars but chariots and how many sisters can say that about their brother?
Everyday in the United States 15 people die from ALS. My brother Randy was counted among the 15 on April 19, 2011. One year ago today and not a single day has gone by since that I haven’t missed him, loved him, and given God thanks he was my brother.
Along with this being the anniversary of Randy’s death, his birthday will be on May 1. He would have been 64 this year.
To honor and celebrate my brother’s life, for the next thirteen days, between now and May 1, I’m going to be sharing little bits of my brother’s life in stories . . . and in cookies. I’m keeping the cookies simple and the stories short because my purpose isn’t to dazzle you with words or icing. I just want to introduce you to my brother because I know you’ll really like him. Now, I know it might seem a little strange to be introduced to someone who’s died but look at it this way, you get to meet a really great guy without needing to add another name to your Christmas card list. It’s basically a win-win for you.
Along with remembering my completely awesome brother, I also want us to remember that since Randy died on April 19, 2011 more than 5600 people have been newly diagnosed with ALS and more than 5600 people have died from ALS. That’s a whole lot of awesomeness the world has lost and continues to lose every year from a disease that to this point as avoided a cure to destroy it or a treatment to slow down it’s progression but the clock is ticking on ALS and the time is coming when a cure will be found. Count on it ALS, you chump!
Randy had always been my knight-in-shining-armor. From the time we were young I looked up to Randy and adored him in the total and complete way little sisters do with their big brothers. My brother was smart. My brother was handsome. My brother was funny. Emphasis on the my because he belonged to me. He was my big brother. I was his little sister. And for some reason that I’ll never know he put up with a little sister who followed him everywhere, looked through all his stuff, and asked him a thousand and one questions about absolutely nothing. But most of all, Randy was my knight-in-shining-armor because whenever I needed him, he was there, and over the years I needed him a lot, whether it was fixing my computer before I threw it through the window or walking with me through a difficult time in my life where I didn’t know where else to turn. Randy was my go-to guy, my personal hero, and my knight-in-shining-armor who never failed to rescue me.
That’s right. Some people use paint swatches. Me, I go candy coated chocolates.
Which reminds me . . .
Go buy seasonal candy. Seriously. Stop reading this post and go get some NOW.
Trust me on this. Just do it!
While you’re gone I’ll play.
Wheeeeeeeee!
Did you get the M&M Bunny Mix? For the more socially-conscious I should probably mention that no bunnies were harmed in the making of the M&M’s. I’m actually a little surprised they don’t mention that on the packaging. Anyway, assuming that you listened to me this one time and followed my orders suggestions, here’s why I felt it was important for you to stock up before there’s a rush on pastel-colored refined sugar.
Bunny Mix M&M’s are great for flower centers, shirt buttons, butterfly wings, gumballs in a gum machine, bedazzling the half-circles on scallop-edged cookie cutter shapes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And pastel Tootsie Rolls? Oh…where to begin?!?
How about adding dimensional butterfly bodies? You just need to soften the Tootsie rolls and then shape them before pressing them on to the cookie. I prefer unwrapping them and softening them in the microwave for about 8 seconds but if you’re trying to conserve energy just carry them around in your front pocket for about 4 hours. Wrapped.
Cute, huh? While I can’t speak for royal icing, glaze seems to adhere to the candy surface really well when piped on as added decoration.
If butterflies aren’t your thang, how about these cookies for Father’s Day?
How fun are those flags? I just warmed up a red Tootsie Roll, used a fondant roller to flatten it, cut the shape with a knife, added the numbers with black glaze and wrapped it around a large toothpick. And FYI, regular chocolate brown Tootsie Rolls are awesome for cookie decorating too!
And in case you’re wondering, I used a paint palette cutter for the putting green and when the cookies were still warm I used the end of a drinking straw to cut out the hole. AND the golf balls were covered with a coating of white glaze and after allowing the icing to dry for about 45-60 minutes I gently and repeatedly pressed the surface with the rounded end of a small paint brush. Like I said, just in case you were wondering.
I make cookies for people and people have stories. I love stories and here’s one I’m humbled to be able to share with you.
This beautiful woman is Jane Scovill, and I’ve asked her daughter Heidi to introduce you to her. What follows are Heidi’s words:
My mom had the gift of hospitality. As a young girl I would watch her host elaborate New Years parties or pour lemonade for the men painting the house or plate cookies to sneak to our neighbor or wrap up banana bread to take to the workers at the local gas station. She was always inviting people to our home who didn’t have a place to go to for the holidays. She was always throwing parties. She loved to cook and bake and share it with others. I didn’t know what it was called then, but I knew I loved what she was doing. She loved to help people and give. When I was in junior high she baby sat for moms who couldn’t afford childcare while they worked.
My mom knew how to have fun, how to laugh, and how to be spontaneous. She loved adventure and she loved the underdog. She was “that mom” who drove me and my junior high girlfriends to the boys’ houses so we could tee pee their homes and front yards.
My mom was athletic. She could water ski and snow ski with the best of them. And Mom loved dessert. When we’d go out to dinner to a restaurant in our town famous for their desserts she wouldn’t order one dessert but she’d order two and that would be her dinner. She loved popcorn and when we were young she’d drive us to the movie theater and have us run in and buy some. Then we’d return home as a family to watch movies and eat our movie popcorn.
And my mom loved Jesus. It wasn’t uncommon for my mom to have praise music blasting through the house while she sang at the top of her lungs all the while tears streaming down her face. When you’ve met the Savior and your life has been changed – it moves you. And it moved her. She knew Jesus and she knew what he had done for her. And when you’ve experienced Grace and Mercy it changes you deep in a place you can’t hide. And there was no hiding it for my mom. She would cry and she would sing…loudly.
When I was 16 and my mom was 39 she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. She was the youngest diagnosed with this disease in Oregon at the time, although since then thousands of others throughout the country have been diagnosed at even younger ages. Mom never let Parkinson’s get her down. She fell down constantly for years until she could no longer walk. Amazingly she never broke a bone, but she fell down in stores, in restaurants, in hotels, in airports – most of the time taking people or racks down with her. Was she embarrassed? Maybe, but every time it happened she’d end up laughing about it. Often, she’d fall down at home and say, ‘Just leave me here.” And then while still on the floor she’d call out and say, “Hey, could someone come clean up that dust bunny over there?”
Mom didn’t want help and used the cane only if she had to and only resorted to the wheel chair when she was left with no choice. She would keep at life until Parkinson’s no longer let her keep at life. Dad took her everywhere and we just laughed through the stares of people. She was incredibly strong willed which is probably what kept her alive the last 7 years. She passed away this year just weeks before her 65th birthday.
During the last days of Jane’s life Heidi shared about her mom and her final hours on Facebook, and like Heidi’s other friends I followed each update with a bittersweet mixture of sorrow and joy; a daughter and family saying goodbye too soon to the mom and wife they cherished, and a woman of God finding her way back to the presence of the One who created her and carried her tenderly through every joy and every hardship this life had held.
I never knew Jane Scoville personally nor have I met Nick Scoville, Jane’s loving husband of 40 years who walked courageously and faithfully alongside Jane during their long journey with Parkinson’s, but I’m so grateful to know of them through Heidi. I hope you are too.
Recently Jane’s daughter Heidi asked if I’d be interested in making cookies for her family to present to the staff at the assisted living center that cared for her mom during the last four years of her life. No, I wasn’t interested in making the cookies. I was honored to make them.
Tulips, roses, and swirly daisy things.
And a cookie bearing the name of each of those who for 24/7 for 4 years lived into the name, caregiver.
Among their names are cookies expressing the gifts they gave to Jane during her time with them.
The following images were sent to me by Heidi of the staff and residents of the assisted living center.
The table’s set for the guests of honor.
Sometimes cookies are just cookies.
And sometimes they’re more.
This feels like one of the more times.
When I first started decorating cookies I ordered every Americolor gel available, because that’s what you’re suppose to do, isn’t it? Go full speed throttle right out of the gate?
Don’t believe me?
Tah-Dah!
And before you ask, you can find this AWESOME slim rolling cart at The Container Store. It took five minutes to put together and if you can have a love affair with a portable 4-tiered plastic rolling cart then consider me smitten! I have two of them. This one holds my glaze making/color supplies. The other one holds my decorating supplies (toothpicks, candy tweezers, piping tips, wax paper, paper towels…). But back to colors.
So there I was with all those amazing color gels but every time I made up an order of cookies my color choices were hit and miss. More miss than hit. My red would be deep and intense, my green too blue, my yellow too pale and my purple was so neon it looked like Tinky Winky, the purple Teletubby had gone head first into the Vitamix.
Not only did I have a hard time matching up the shading, hues, and tones but every time I veered outside of the primary and secondary colors, things got even more sketchy. And then…cue harmonic heavenly music….I discovered two incredible online color resources, Design Seeds and Photo Card Boutique.
Designs Seeds is all color all the time. Everyday they pop up two or three color palettes. To find a selection of color palette choices that include blue, you just need to type “blue” into their simple site search engine and all their past palettes with blue will come popping up for you to look through.
.
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But leading the way for me is Photo Card Boutique. In addition to their regular offering of cool color palettes they also provide other graphic services and resources like fonts, freebies (wonderful word posters), and tips/tricks/and tutorials for photographers and card makers. But me, I’m all about their Cool Color Palettes.
So let me tell you how it works.
The other day I wanted to make a spring time set of flowers in muted soft shades. I knew I wanted one of the colors to be like a muted purple so I went over to Photo Card Boutique and using their site search engine, typed in “purple” and up came this one among the selections.
Once I decided this was the one I was going to base my cookies on, I printed out a color copy, and started mixing my icing colors. In the example above it was easy to match up the top two colors. All I had to do to get the first was to add a drop of Royal Purple and a couple drops of White to the glaze and almost immediately I had a spot on match. From there I added a few more drops at a time of the Royal Purple until I had the bolder second color. You know the color copy I mentioned printing out before starting to mix the icing colors?
This is why I match my icing colors to a printed copy rather than to just view the palette on my iPad. Can you imagine what a sticky mess my iPad would end up being by the time I was done! As you can tell I had a tough time getting the green lined up. What eventually saved the day was Avocado (one of my favorite colors for tweaking) and a speck of Egg Yellow (another great one for tweaking).
Once I had a match for all the colors on the color palette I decided it would be fun to add a lighter green and a lighter fuschia to go along with the light purple so all I needed to do at that point was take a couple tablespoons of the existing colors and add them to containers of white glaze.
In a couple days I’ll be showing you the full set of cookies because there’s a very touching story that goes along with them I want to share with you but for now, I just want to give you this peek so you can see how well the colors worked together.
Nice, huh? Wait until you see the full set!
On another related note, the cookies pictured above were actually extras that I held back from the order, so that I could package and freeze them. In another week or two I’ll remove them from the freezer and after they’ve thawed I’ll take a few photos so we can see how the finish and color of the frozen glazed cookies compares to the fresh ones.
So that’s how I come up with my color palettes most of the time.
Sweet Hope Cookies has just under 13,000.00 for the ALS Association since February 2011.
Thank you Sweet Hope Cookie Eaters!
Due to a high volume of advance cookie orders and a string of personal commitments, Sweet Hope Cookies won't be taking any additional orders until the first of November 2012, but don't let that stop you from dropping by here and our Facebook page to see what cookies are coming out of the oven!
So that’s what led up to this moment, this moment being a mere two hours before our entire family arrived and the ensuing chaos that always follows whenever two or more individuals with our shared bloodline are in the same general vicinity. I’m standing in the kitchen sweaty and nervous, juggling back and forth between basting the bird, peeling the potatoes, getting the water to a boil, and cutting up vegetables for the salad when Randy walks in. No. Let me retract that and say, “When Randy walks in cool and calm as a cucumber.” Walking over to the counter where the last of the remaining ingredients are lined up he picks up three cans (actually he picks up two of each for a total of nine cans but I wasn’t about to make that many cookies), places them on the kitchen island, looks at me with a grin, and if you knew Randy, you know the exact grin I’m talking about and says to me, his sister, “So…do you have the recipe for the green bean casserole? Or maybe you can just tell me how to make it?”
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