the monkey bread saga

I felt this post deserved a picture.

There sits the monkey bread. Last week. 12:45 AM. Tired and hungry, we started eating it before it was even cool enough to touch.

To start at the beginning, as promised in my last post, the idea to bake monkey bread struck me back in November while I was happily perusing through a Williams-Sonoma catalog. First, I found it amusing that it was called monkey bread. People have a strange fascination with all things surrounding monkeys, and I am no different. It seemed simple enough to make, provided you had a Williams-Sonoma monkey bread bundt pan and the Williams-Sonoma monkey bread mix.

So, in my infinite wisdom, I thought perhaps I could make the monkey bread for Thanksgiving. I ordered both items online two weeks in advance and proceeded to patiently wait. . . until it dawned on me that the items might not arrive in time for Thanksgiving. Panicked, I called customer service, and they assured me I would receive the shipments - at some point surrounding Thanksgiving day. Ugh.

I actually can't remember if both pan and mix made it to me before Thanksgiving, but either way, I decided that I didn't have enough time on Thanksgiving to get the extra ingredients and make it before heading out to see our aunts, uncles, and cousins. I'd make it at Christmas.

So Chrismas rolled around, and it got busier and busier, especially with food preparations. Since I like arranging cheese far more than I enjoy cooking meals, I was in charge of the hors d'oeuvres. In addition, I thought, I'm sure I would have enough time for the monkey bread. As Christmas Eve got closer and closer, I kept looking at the recipe instructions and thinking, this requires a lot of time - I won't have enough time on Christmas Eve, and I won't have enough time Christmas day because I'll be far too busy with Guitar Hero II (and I was).

Finally, it was decided, by me, that the monkey bread would wait. My little sister was none too pleased, but nonetheless, I had cheese, hummus, and crackers to concentrate on - far easier, and at the time, more important.

Then New Year's Eve was around the corner, and I thought about monkey bread, and then I thought some more, and then New Year's Eve skipped on by, and I had placed the monkey bread pan in my closet so as not to clutter my room (the kitchen was out of the question because I knew if I did that, then when I did finally go to make monkey bread, I would find that the pan had been taken to the garage to sit with any other excess baking items).

My Dad's birthday came at the end of January, and I thought about making the monkey bread for him, but when my mom mentioned he wanted crumb cake, I thought that was a safer, already-proven yummy bet. I'll admit, I was quick to dismiss the monkey bread idea.

This all brings us to the month of February, when my little sister's winter break arrived. We have to make the monkey bread, she said. I have to write a lot of poems for class, and I want to write one about monkey bread. Fair enough, little one, I replied.

The date was set for Wednesday, which would now be last Wednesday. We enlisted the help of everyone's favorite, soon-to-be-married cousin, who would be at our house at 8, and it was settled. At 6:00 PM, we went to buy ingredients, came home, laid everything out, and began.

We had already searched for our electric mixer - in the garage, of course - but it was not to be found, so after placing all the ingredients in a bowl, mixing it a little, we got ready to knead the dough.

Never knead ridiculously sticky dough without first greasing your hands. . . is one bit of information I would've added to the instructions. When our cousin arrived at 8, we were all in a fine mess of sticky dough. Half of it was stuck to our hands, some of it was on a shifty piece of wax paper, and a small portion of it was actually back in the bowl we had designated as the where-we-put-the-dough-back-into bowl. With dough stuck to his hands, I could tell my dad wasn't crazy about the bread so far, and my mom was already asking me if I could use the monkey bread bundt pan for anything else. . . you know, er - in case this doesn't work.

At 8:30 began the first of like a million "now put it in a warm place for 1 1/2 hours" steps in the recipe. It didn't look promising. When I checked up on it 1 hour later, it didn't look like it had moved an inch.

The story continues, but the jist of it is that the bread had to do a lot of rising sessions, and each time we doubted it would happen. Fortunately, we did grease our hands (there were a lot of "regrease!!" commands shouted) before we made each individual dough ball - amounting to a grand total of 48 - and dunked each one into butter and then sugar and then the bundt pan.

By the time we put the bread in the oven, we had already come to the realization that there was no way I could have pulled it off on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, or my dad's birthday. We also understood why people always rave about how much their kids love making monkey bread - because they get to play with dough for a whole day. . . literally.

When we finally pulled it out of the oven, we were impressed at just how much it looked like the picture on the box. We also knew that a photo session to capture the moment in time was needed.

Like I said, we started eating it when it was still very, very hot.

My sister's astute conclusion: We made a giant Cinnabon in a $36 bundt pan.

A monkey Cinnabon, of course.

So there's the story, for all of you who asked =P

lions, vikings, and extraterrestrials. . . oh dear

Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.

- Henry David Thoreau

The last two weeks have been busy, to say the least.

Last weekend kicked off with a very fine, very funny production of Robin Hood, with my little sister playing the part of Lady Mariam. Yes, she takes after me on the stage =P

Then there was some lion dancing going on Saturday night, only to be followed by more lion dancing during all of last week. For those of you who haven't read the latest issue of LI Pulse (yes, shameless plug), every Chinese New Year, which kicked off this past Sunday, February 18th, my kung fu academy does a month-long schedule of lion dance performances at restaurants, schools, parties, etc.

It's a blast to watch, and it is to perform as well, but after four years at it, my crazed attempt to be at every show, every night, in rain or snow, day or night, starts to push me just a tad over the edge. So last week, with the magazine I work at in the middle of long days and nights of production (when 11 PM hits, my type-A personality, perfectionist proofreading skills start to lag in the efficiency department), my loyalties and amazing ability to multi-task without sleep were definitely put to the test.

Then there was the History Channel. Even if you’re not a history fanatic like me, there’s always something worth watching. Last weekend it was aliens, USOs (unidentified submerged objects, as opposed to the “unidentified swimming objects” that I once attributed to it), conspiracies, biblical UFO sightings, and encounters in ancient times. Last night on History International, it was the Vikings, Mongols, Goths, Huns. In between, you have your modern marvels, empires, lost worlds, man and machine, dragons, conquerors, discoveries, and your, ugh, pesky dogfights. Next weekend – The Dark Ages. Oh yeah.

Am I dork? Yes. . . to a point.

Of course, there were also four-hour classes consisting of John Ford and Luis Buñuel movies, the ever-disturbing look at Triumph of the Will, silent documentaries about the Spanish Civil War, drama-ridden railroads, and unnecessarily long conversations about falling goats and Buñuel's creative take on falling goats.

Then there was my own teaching to look at which began with teacher observations last week, a follow-up meeting on Friday, and more teaching on Sunday.

Did my week get busier? Of course!! Think along the lines of pole dancing and monkey bread. . . a 1950's American classic with appeal that I'm starting to think Williams-Sonoma might have tad exaggerated in their sales pitch. Seven hours is not a recipe - it's a job at a bakery.

Stay tuned. . .

come again??

The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof shit detector.

- Ernst Hemingway

Communication skills are taken for granted. I think people just assume that if they can be heard, they can be understood. . . and I don’t mean understood in any sort of intellectual or spiritual or deep-in-thought way, I’m talking about understood like I-can-make-out-the-words-that-just-came-out-of-your mouth way.

Which brings me to my main point: It is my firm belief that if a person works at a place of business, where they were hired at some point for any number of reasons and are receiving payment for their services, and that person is charged with the responsibility of picking up a telephone and holding it to their face in order to reach out to customers, that said person should be able to say with little difficulty the following things – a greeting, name of business, name of person, company motto, etc. – without me wanting to drive over in my pajamas, glasses, and pillow hair to beat them silly with their own phone.

You ask, why so angry, Melissa?

Well, for many reasons, but in this specific case because I don’t understand why it’s hard for people who claim to be professionals to vocalize, enunciate, slow down, take interest in the needs of others, pretend to be even remotely intelligent. Even if you aren’t, fake it.

While this has been a growing concern of mine, it was an incident a few days ago that really got to me. It’s rather lengthy, so as to make it as annoying as it felt – and to reprimand you for not yet subscribing to my blog =P

My phone wasn’t working the other day. I probably need a new phone soon. Great, will do. My phone happens to have Verizon service. Great reception. Nice phones. Somewhat humorous commercials. However, the thought of actually going to my local Verizon store fills me with rage, anxiety, and deep-seated hatred. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I didn’t know better, and I thought stores were stores, salespeople were salespeople, everyone has a job to do, and they do it well. Then life hit me, I worked in retail for a year and-a-half when I was in high school, I realized how horrible customers could be, I found another job a world away from retail, resumed the role of simply the customer, realized how horrible retail people could be – ended up feeling sorry for both parties involved.

Yet, whenever I went to a Verizon store, I never ever felt sorry for the salespeople, and my last meeting with the store made it very clear why I feel that way.

So, my dad is nice enough to take the phone for me to the store to see if they can fix it. He comes back an hour later, no doubt having received the best customer service one could ask for, with the news that they are giving me a new phone, and they took my old phone. What about all my contacts? They said they can’t transfer them. So they’ll give me a new phone.

Okay, so let me get this straight, they took it upon themselves to decide that they would fix my problem, throw my very extensive phone book into the trash and grace me with a new phone that I’ll have to pay for anyway? They thought this was a good idea?

Perhaps they weren’t thinking clearly. It’s early in the morning. I’ll call them and tell them I’m going to pick up my phone. Here is my phone call (note: the symbols are not curse words, just a lot of mumbling):

Them: Hi. Thisis Robdjfdfl. Thankyouforcalling Verzxofjjdg. *&#*&*!&#help*&$*!#! you?
Me: Yes, my father just dropped off my phone, and they said it couldn’t be fixed, so they took it and said they would be issuing me a new phone. However, I really need the numbers on my phone book, and they told my father that they cannot retrieve those numbers.
Them: Ugghh . . . (that’s always nice and clear)
Me: When I last had my phone, I could still very much see and retrieve my phone numbers, so I’d like to pick up the phone so I can do that. I don’t want anybody to erase those numbers or throw the phone away.
Them: Ugghh. . . hold on. . .
Me: Thank you. (awaiting customer service)

Them II: sdfhn;vwuern;va uiawel;iu vker vjklwejrvlkjkljklwej kjwe kjaewrklj vkjlwel;k
Me: Hey. . . . (I go on to repeat every word, in even greater detail, that I already did to the fellow Robdjfdfl before.
Them II: jdsfakldjf kj youcant do that dfadj jasdkfj kjsdfklj ksdjf kjsdf lksd
Me: I’m sorry, what? I didn’t understand you.
Them II: You &*&$#@$!^cantdo #$@&*$*!that.
Me: I don’t understand. I just want to pick up my old phone and forget that I brought it in. I want to cancel the request for a new phone.
Them II: Youcanthavetwophonesatonce. (he actually said this)
Me: (agitated, giving my phone a nasty look) I don’t want two phones. . . I want my phone. I would like to take my phone back and get my numbers from it before I put in the request for a new phone.
Them II: {snorts} (yes, snorts) Well. . . . you can getour ^%!#^$%^$! otherphone then.
Me (pause, compose, breathe): I don’t want another phone. I would like my phone. I only want one phone.
Them II: Whatver. Comeinthenadn%^!#^#!@&*

So, I drove to the store, got on line, waited there for 15 minutes as I glared at the two people at customer service, one of them the lady who had taken it upon herself to take my old phone and disregard my phone book or even attempt to get my numbers, and the other illustrious man, the epitome of intelligence who I spoke to on the phone. 15 minutes go by, they stare at me, I stare at them, they stare at me, “Linda,” I stare at them, “Jack,” they stare at me.

A good crowd of people are there, and one of them answers the telephone. OMG!! I realize you’re customer service, and perhaps it is bad management or you’re understaffed (but believe me, they weren’t), but why the crap are the two people who are catering to 15 people in the store also required and even allowed to pick up a friggin’ telephone?

Finally, still waking up, thinking about the cereal I ran out on, I realize that Jack and Jill behind the counter know something I don’t. Fully awake, I turn around, to find a service representative staring into space. So I ask her, “Was I supposed to sign in?” She laughs, “Oh dear!! Have you been standing here all this time?”

“Look, please, I just want my phone back,” I tell her, and explain the back story. “Here is the receipt for the new phone. I don’t want it. I just want my phone back.”

She’s nice enough, takes my receipt, goes to save my phone. 5 minutes. She returns with my phone. Sans receipt.

“Thank you so much. Oh, can I have my receipt back? I want to make sure I don’t get a call in two hours telling me to pick up a phone and a bill.

“Right. . . I’ll be right back.” 5 minutes. She’s looking for it. 10 minutes. She must have lost it. 15 minutes. She’s reprinting me a new one and baking me cookies. She returns with the exact same receipt I gave her.

“When you come back,” she says, “you’ll have to do the whole process again for the new phone.”

“Yes, I know. They explained to me I can’t have two phones at once. I won’t be back any time soon.” With that I left – me, my broken phone, and my sanity.

Look, I know customers can suck sometimes, but I know that people in retail can as well. Yeah, it might not be the greatest job, but it is a job, and just as everyone else has a job to do, at least try to do it well. Picking up a phone and driving the person on the other line insane is not professional. Oh, and this has nothing to do with a language barrier because we were all speaking English. It’s a matter of opening your mouth with at least an inkling of pride in your work and some care for the people you’re helping. It’s about not mumbling. It’s about not snorting. It’s about not holding long, dramatic pauses so that you can be obnoxious. It’s about not watching someone stand in line for 15 minutes without at least giving them a hint she forgot to do something when you know perfectly well that a new sign-in system was recently implemented that most people who haven’t been to the store in three months don’t know about.

Communication, people. You can flip my computer around, twirl it on your head, make it dance, send a rocket to space with it, but if I get a migraine trying to figure out what your mouth is saying, it really doesn’t matter.

With all this mumbling apathy going around, I’m afraid to even think about what people’s penmanship looks like these days.

the western

The test of any good fiction is that you should care something for the characters; the good to succeed, the bad to fail. The trouble with most fiction is that you want them all to land in hell, together, as quickly as possible.

- Mark Twain

Genre fiction walks a very fine line between the good and the bad. Partially, it might be just that genre classics – the romance, the mystery, the sci fi thriller – tend to evoke such powerfully instantaneous gag reflexes. We have preconceived notions in our head, and more often than not, we're right. Why? Well, because the very nature of genres makes it so easy to duplicate and rehash and recycle something that was once so brilliant and novel into something that's downright comical and even sad.

Then there's always that picture of the people who write some of this stuff. Take, oh, I don't know, the romance writer, or the fantasy junkie. . . I'll spare my own details, but I'm sure you can draw your own picture.

Sometimes it's just hard to take the new books, the new movies, the new shows, well, seriously . . . which is sad considering how much great literature has come from genre fiction. Great works are always rare and far between.

So that brings me to the Western. We all know and, even if we don't at first realize it, love the western. You might not go crazy about them, but just try and tell me you've never envisioned yourself victorious in a shootout, saddling up, and riding into the sunset, and I won't believe you. I'm fortunate enough to have found myself in a class all about westerns this semester. From to to , we're gonna cover it all, even managing to prove that the history of cinema and the history of the western are somehow in direct correlation to each other. I'm curious to see how that works.

The first movie clip we saw - the opening of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Oh yeah. Granted, it's no Raiders of the Last Ark, which I made sure to point out as one of my favorite movies of all time on my little "who am I" index card at the start of class, but it's Indy nonetheless - you can't go wrong.

We were also asked to write down what weapons we're most familiar with, so I'm expecting a question or two one of these days as to why I'm proficient in the spear and broadsword. . .

On the whole, it looks to be an interesting class. We'll take a long, hard look at genre fiction - the good, the bad, and the ugly (I couldn't help it!!) - and see if there's any hope left for the western.