Food for Thought

Today's adventures led to the store picking up the perfect ingredients to make the mouth-watering cake I am currently digging into. Not to have a big head, but in my completely biased and over exaggerated opinion, it is almost perfect. It is something I am happy to eat and happy to share. My chocolate covered masterpiece has flooded my mind with another time I found myself in the kitchen.
To follow me down memory lane, let’s first picture me standing in the kitchen. I am 5 foot 3, 19 years old, and am working away with all the tools a well-equipped kitchen has to offer. Sadly, our picture is not quit accurate yet. First, we must turn back the clock about fourteen years. I am much smaller, much cuter and much more imaginative. So here I stand in all my five year old glory ready to whip up a creation that I can still taste in my mouth all these years later.
On today's menu is freshly baked bread. Even from a young age, I always had a love of bread. So today, I am setting off to make my own, and like all good chefs, I have a trusted process. First things first, I must make sure I have all of my tools ready and easy to reach. Lucky for me, I only need two things. First, I need one flimsy Tupperware bowl, the kind that they sell whipped cream in works well.  Next I need something to stir with. Here, I am not picky - any spoon, spatula, or even a fork will do. Now that my stage is set, it is time for the play to begin.
Our show opens with the flashy scene of selecting the world’s finest ingredients. The first actor to take center is a slice of white bread. As any foodie would gather, the process of making bread is much like making yogurt. If bread is what we aim to make, first we must add a slice. Now the drama thickens. Into the blow goes a flurry of eggs, milk, water, ketchup, and cheese. If you think this show is sounding too predictable, we will mention the entrance of the comic relief: Bacon bits.
Now that things are heating up, it is time to bake.
I may have been old enough to bake a tasty snack for family and friends, but find me any five year old who is ready to use an oven. So to avoid this hazard, the microwave was used in its stead. For best results, use a chair when moving the dish in and out to avoid spilling. Now my very favorite part about this bread is the speed at which it bakes. Simply set the timer for two minutes and wait.
If you fallow this process, your bread should have the appealing look of vomit and be about the same lukewarm temperature.
Like all good cooks, I know that in the sport of fairness, I should share my bread with my family before selfishly tasting my own first bite. Like most families, they were sure to be surprised to see that someone had taken the time to turn their hard earned groceries into an enjoyable treat. However, my family is not like the majority. My mother seemed to care more about the mess, and my father cared more about the waste. So into the kitchen I was marched, to face the scene of the crime. Most families would see the mess, and send a child right to my room, but as above stated, my family is not normal.
I remember hearing a monologue about not wasting food and cleaning up messes, but I was not told to get out of the kitchen. Instead, my dad told me I was free to cook anytime as long as I followed on rule. Everything that was cooked must be eaten, and though I was allowed to share, it was up to me to eat what others could not stomach.
So my bread was placed on the table and a spoon was placed in my hand. For the first time, I saw my bread for what it really was. A Tupperware bowl full of chunky, smelly, lukewarm puke.  One bite was enough to make even the strongest stomach want to hurl, the plus side being that it could taste no worse going up than it did going down.
My father stuck by that rule, and somehow I never stooped cooking; I simply changed my methods. From then on, I started asking if ketchup went with pickles, or if anyone would eat a peanut butter and cheese sandwich.  Now, fourteen years down the road, I have learned a thing or two. I am glad that my father made me eat that slop, because if he had not, I may have never found the true joy of cooking.

A Bump in the Road

Okay, this is it. The race is about to begin. My fingers hold tight to the handlebars of my purple bike, ready for take-off at a moment’s notice. My head is held high in pride because I know this is one race I am sure to win. I was never the fastest, the biggest or the strongest, but I already knew I had them beat. There was no one I knew who could out do my perfect balance. I could always find my center and never falter, and that was what today's race was all about. I was not nervous; my outcome was sure. The only way I was going to walk away was with the admiration of every child who dared challenge me. Boy would they be in for a shock as they learned that once they put the ball in my field, this undersized wisp of a girl would show up boys everywhere. If only I knew before I set off down that road, before the countdown was over, that this sure win would land me in the emergency room, I might have been more humble.

I know the rules, and I am ready. Line up with your back tire even with the street sign. Once the countdown is given, peddle as fast and as hard as you can until you pass the last post in a long line of black mailboxes. Now this is where the fun begins; this was my secret weapon. For, like most childhood games, simple is simply not good enough. To make life fun there has to be a twist, an edge, and a bit of danger. Once you had used every last bit of your power to send you soaring that first stretch on racetrack, you had to pull your feet free from the cyclone of peddles and cross your legs pretzel style over the center bar. From this twisted stance your job was to become as aerodynamic as any ten year old child can be and glide to the end of the cul-de-sac. Last one there is the rotten egg.

Boy was I flying. While my gangly mid growth spurt challengers were finding balancing a chore, I was right on point. My eye was only for the finish line and the badge of glory. I, Rebekah Guin, would lose no more. My focus was so complete that I missed something that would change my envisioned outcome in the blink of an eye. In that quick flutter of eyelashes, I missed the hum of an engine. In that brief lapse, I missed the four rolling tires. Somehow in all that joy, I missed the minivan with whom I was sharing my turnpike.

Jerking on my handlebars, I moved far too quickly for a metal frame on two old tires to remain upright. Now this was an easy fix. Anyone who has ever been on a bike knows that if you get in trouble, you need only put your feet down. This is all well and good, but holding true to the rules of my epic flight, my feet were otherwise tied up, with each other that is. So with nowhere to go, and bike falling fast, there was only one way to go. A graceless swan dive over the handlebars gave me a stop I was searching for. Sadly, the road chose to stop on my face.

Out of breath, and cheeks burning red, I reached up and touched my forehead just above my left eye. My fingers were witness to a magic trick that day, for where a flat bone had been, was a bump raising so quickly that it was equally as frightening as it was painful.

I don't really remember much of what happened then. I know someone got my mom. I know an ER doctor scanned my head. What I remember more than anything was exactly the way the bump looked on my face. Sticking out of my skull was a perfect replica of a flesh-toned golf ball. Where the small divots would be on the original, were bloody scraps from where the road had proved it was stronger than me.

So what is the moral wrapped up in this little tale? Is it always wear a helmet? Could it be to stay out of the road, to look where you’re going, or even be humble when you think you cannot fail? The answer is simply that I do not know why I am telling this story. Take whatever meaning you want and I bet you can find solid grounds to state your point. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that now, years later, if I see a golf ball, I touch my forehead and remember a bike race that will never be forgotten.