Sunday’s Cake, Friday Cocktail–and The Price of Doing Business

Sunday’s Cake: Actually, this title’s a bit misleading because the cake I threw together at the last second here is still cooling.  So, no pictures yet.  I’m not even sure the thing will work because I think I overdid the drunken plum filling just a touch.  Despite the fact that the picture for this particular cake–a Plum Bundt–shows a standard bundt cake, there’s far too little flour and this might be much better as a layer or small coffee cake, and only later did I realize that I was simply too stupid (or in a rush) to read the bit where the author said to double the recipe.  So . . . bluh.

But we’ll see.  Even if it’s a disaster, my guess is the husband will eat it anyway (the batter was tremendous and so is the plum filling; I used leftover plums from brandy that I’d frozen away and poached them a little more in some of the very same plum brandy and a touch more sugar).

* * *

Friday’s Cocktail: On Friday, I put out this call for Alabama-inspired drinks.  I got back only one, the Alabama Slammer, which is actually a derivative of the Alabama Shooter, made famous by Tom Cruise in Cocktail 

and, later, Brett Favre because, well, he’s Brett Favre.

Here’s the thing, though: we’re talking a drink made with sloe gin, Amaretto, and Southern Comfort.  Some recipes stipulate adding vodka; others want you to do vodka and orange juice.  The ones without oj are for more authentic Alabama Shooters, and in only some shooter recipes do you find vodka added.  Well, I know why that is: the sloe gin.  Sloe gin is a particularly nasty, cloyingly sweet liquor, something you probably drank in your college days of sloe gin fizzes.  BUT if you look at those recipes, they always stipulate adding regular gin as well–and why?  Easy: to cut the taste of that god-awful sloe gin.

That’s the first non-starter for me.  The second is Southern Comfort.  I’m sorry, but I might have to disown myself if I drink that.

So, all in all, looking at the ingredients, I just couldn’t get excited.  I kept thinking that what I’d be left with is this treacly sweet drink I would pour down the drain.

Turns out, though, that two companies–Plymouth and one other I haven’t been able to track down–make a sloe gin that is, apparently, very drinkable.  If I can find a bottle, then I’m game.

So, instead, I opted for a Blood and Sand: Laphroig, Carpano Antiqua sweet vermouth, maraschino liqueur, a teaspoon of maraschino cherry juice (to get that bloody caste), and a smidge (an ounce) of orange juice.  If you’ve got Cherry Herring, which is a cherry liquor, then you can dispense with the cherry juice.  I only added it because maraschino liqueur, while cherry-flavored, isn’t quite the same.

Where does this splendid concoction originate?  No one really knows, though the name is supposedly inspired by a Rudolph Valentino 1922 movie, Blood and Sand, which follows the life and loves of a bullfighter.

Whatever.  The husband was sold.  Me, too, and I’m not really a fan of orange juice.  This had a wonderfully smoky complexity and is something you must sip very, very slowly.  I don’t think the cherry notes came through, though, and I’d be interested in trying this again with true Cherry Herring.  One thing’s sure, though: your grandma’s screwdriver, this ain’t.

If I can figure out how to do those little doohickeys–you know, stars or what-have-you to show what you think of a something–then this would definitely rate as a four-martini glass cocktail.  Maybe five, if I can track down some Cherry Herring.

* * *

We’ve been having this very interesting Facebook discussion on art as it relates to how you should present a house, etc.  The skinny: a couple touring our house objected to our art, specifically Adios, Mickey

 

and a small group of nudes by Mark Forth (who just happens to be having a show right now at the Tory Folliard Gallery).

Now, mind you, the only large-ish piece is Mickey, and that’s on the second floor.  The Forth–a very small painting–is mounted on a wall leading to the second floor.  There are two other nudes above my computer–again, small paintings–but these are the ones that were singled out.

Regardless, these folks didn’t like them.  They actually mentioned that they’d recently been to Disneyland and well . . .As if that was some kind of explanation.  Consequently, this carried over into a dislike for the house.

And I’m, like, wuh?  

Now, I can somewhat understand their discomfort if their kids had been with them (and, yes, I know that some people do bring their children).  Personally, I wouldn’t just because I’m not sure I could pay attention to the house if I’m always watching my kids, if you know what I mean.  Plus, kids are easily bored and all that, so seeing the house becomes an ordeal.

But these folks’ kids weren’t there.  They just objected to the art and that seemed to make it tough for them to actually see the house.  (They were also unhappy that we were near a road–but all houses are near roads.  This is a village; that road is busy for exactly fifteen minutes on weekday mornings, with change of shift at the factory.  These people have never seen traffic.  Plus, there’s a wooded and landscaped quarter acre between the front of the house and the road.  So that’s a head-scratcher, too.)

Whatever.

Let’s not get into the fact that art does not convey; that no matter what graces a wall, its after-image will not show up under UV the way blood spatter would.  Although, of course, we all know that houses in which bad things have happened–murders, say–they are tough to sell.  Me, being macabre and a writer, that wouldn’t be a problem.

But there is this sense that houses take on the characteristics of their occupants, and I’ve already written about houses as the reflection of the self and doubles for the dreamer.  So that type of projection–of the self into and onto a house–is already culturally ingrained.

Anyway, when I mentioned the art thing on Facebook, I got all sorts of responses, mostly folks who agreed that dismissing a house on the basis of what’s on its walls suggests a lack of imagination and an unwillingness to actually look at and see the house.  (Sort of like seeing the forest for the trees here.)  There were a few who wondered if I ought to take down art if it meant I couldn’t sell the house, and that’s a valid point, I guess.  Certainly, realtors are drifting more and more towards “staging” houses.  There are even people you can hire to do this for you, and some of those folks will move out your furniture and decorate with their own.  Yes, you read that right.

My feeling is that, if you opt for something “staged” and, therefore, inoffensive and sterile, then you could be looking at anyone’s house–which might be the point after all.  You want to encourage potential buyers to imagine themselves in your space.  But there is also something to be said for a house with character: that is, something distinctive in some way and not just some anonymous husk.  

Get right down to it, that’s all a house is, by the way.  A house is a shell you populate and upon which you impress your own stamp.  A house is a reflection of who you are, and something onto and into which you can project all sorts of meaning.  Me, I look for houses with character, places where I feel there’s some kind of story.  In Huntsville, there was this one, well lived-in place that the couple had just packed with colors and art and weird fixtures; there was this big blue bottle sculpture in the back yard.  They’d painted the brick this very bright yellow. (In fact, my father’s first response when he saw a picture was who the hell paints brick?  Well, gee, Dad . . . a lot of people?  I mean, Mount Vernon is painted wood that’s been made to look like brick.  So even George Washington liked painted brick.  But that’s where individual taste comes in, and it’s not like paint is permanent.  Besides, I kind of liked the yellow.  It was unusual, sort of charming, actually.)  One outside wall bristled with wrought-iron crosses (I counted about twenty), which was so strange because there was also a mezuzah on one door.  (No, they weren’t Jewish; in fact, the realtor had one, too, and just liked the look; had no idea what a mezuzah was or meant.  Which is, okay, a little odd. It would be like me deciding to put up a crucifix or something without having the slightest idea of what that crucifix means.)

Yet, despite all the loud paint and all that frou-frou . . . I really liked the house.  It had character.  You could tell someone had lived there.  I didn’t get bent about the crosses; the mezuzah was odd but . . .  whatever.  Would I have changed it all?  Of course.  Knocked down walls, opened up spaces, repainted the whole thing, etc.  The important thing is that I could see beyond the surface gloss to the house’s potential.  The neighborhood was/is great; the yard was large; the house wasn’t perfect but so what?  This is why God created paint and contractors.

As it turned out, this became our number two house, the one we would’ve bid on if I hadn’t stumbled on the place where we will be living.  Price wasn’t the deciding factor; when all was said and done in terms of the re-do for the yellow house, the cost would be the same, and I would’ve been okay with managing the work from afar.  Done it before.  No, what settled us on the house we’re moving to (which is much smaller) was the setting; it’s actually a few blocks over–so in the same general area–but bounded by woods and with a fabulous view.  It’s not perfect either; I’m still trying to figure out ways to bring in more light to the front, and what to do with basement space that’s wasted right now.  But that will sort itself out, I think.

I see that I’ve meandered a bit here.  I started out talking about the visible stamp of who I am on the house in which I’m living now, and what–if anything–I should do about it.  Something inside me balks at taking down a painting because it might upset someone, though that’s all a question of degree, I guess.  I chose art that makes me stop and look, after all.  If a painting doesn’t prompt that, what’s the point?  Would I have a threshold myself?  Say, if someone had a Mapplethorpe–one of his photographs that gave people conniptions back in the ’80s–would that make a difference?  Would that be something to take down?  (I’d vote no, and not just because I went to that particular exhibition.)  If you do, then where do you stop?  Do you have an obligation to try to think ahead to what might be objectionable, and can you account for everyone?  Aren’t we talking censorship here?

Well, yes, you are, in a way, and when you’re trying to sell a house, you do practice a certain form of self-censorship.  My house has never been so neat, though I actually kind of like it now.  Yet I have scrubbed my presence to a large degree: nothing on the vanities, no folded laundry, no clutter whatsoever.  Really, the only things left to give a hint about who I might be are on my bookshelves and walls.  (And the yard, but to a lesser extent; there’s the compost bin–a tip-off to my somewhat granola nature–as well as the garden and landscaping.)  Who I am has effectively disappeared from my house.

Still, for some, that’s not enough.  They would have it that my stamp should be eradicated completely; that if a piece of art might be offensive or cause distress,  I should take it down.

Well, I won’t and can’t.  This was one couple, after all.  But not only would there be blank spaces on my walls, I can’t control for everyone’s emotions or reactions nor can I pad the world’s emotional corners.  I’m sorry if you don’t like nudes, and I feel kind of sorry for you if you can’t see the humor in a hanging Mickey.  (Unless Mickey is your god of choice.)  There is nothing intentionally offensive or hateful in the house.  Honestly, if you’re that small-minded, however do you make it through an art museum?  (Well, maybe someone like that doesn’t.)

But I’m not stupid.  Selling a house is business, after all.  Presentation is everything.  If I honestly thought that our art would keep the house from selling . . . sure, I’d do something.  I think that this particular couple was an anomaly (though an eye-opening one; forced me to think about this whole self-censorship thing).

That got me thinking, though, about what a writer, particularly one who hangs in YA, has to do.  Because there are certain unwritten rules, or at least, until very recently, there have been.  You all know what I’m talking about; you can’t really write anything too terribly graphic when it comes to sex.  That’s easing somewhat; certain, very savvy and courageous editors realize that kids know a whole lot more than their parents would like.  But it’s no sure thing.  Writers can’t use too many swear words either; you just can’t.

And then, of course, there’s censorship at a whole other level, one that goes on with libraries and librarians.  I have been told to my face and by a librarian that she would never buy The Sin-Eater’s Confession because it deals with homosexuality and, as a Christian, she’s opposed to that.  Never mind that a librarian isn’t supposed to be practicing censorship on the basis of her personal or religious beliefs. Guys, it happens. Now, does that burn me up?  Sure, although if I were completely banned from all libraries–that would be terrific because then everyone would want to know what all the fuss was about.  Would that stop me from writing what I think I ought to write?  Not about that topic, no.

But would I think twice about being too graphic when it comes to sex?  Yes.  I wanted to write that, I would switch to New Adult.  If I thought swear words were necessary, I’d use them (and I have), but I also–I admit it–keep track.  If I have a character swear, the words have to mean something.  They aren’t simply gratuitous.

But, sure . . . I do practice a modified form of censorship in order to get my work out there.  I suppose I could self-pub, but we’re not talking about that so much because I’m still not convinced that too many kids are able to just download whatever book they want.  They don’t have credit cards.  Their parents do, and parents do keep an eye out.

In this context, practicing self-censorship is the price of doing business.

So, perhaps, some self-censorship to sell my house is also the price for being in this biz, if even for a short time.

As it happens, I may not have to find out.  We’ve also accepted an offer on the house.  Seems like a nice couple, too; the buyer actually cares about what birds come to the yard and what I feed them.  That kind of person, I can groove on.  As I’ve said, I worry about things like that: what will happen to the grosbeaks, the turkeys, all the wildlife that drops by for a visit.

So am I a little relieved that part of me will linger on in this house?  Sure.  I’d be a liar if I said otherwise because I have invested a lot of energy into this place.  But I also know that who I’ve been in this house will also fade from it and become someone else’s home.
Just have to make peace with that.  

But looky here: I still got to be me.