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.
The Locked Box
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
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.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
My Beyond
I do not live inside a block of sights
and sounds that make up a single neighborhood, but there are places
that will always make up who I am. My block is sitting at The Dairy
Bar after opening night at the Temple Theater eating bacon cheese
fries with my friends. We would pour into the little diner until we
had filled every open chair. We would become so boisterous that the
other hungry customers would soon leave, giving us death stares the
whole way out the door. We laughed and talked and sang until we could
not speak anymore. We ate until we were all but bursting from the
number of grease-covered fries and chocolate covered deserts we had
stuffed into our mouths. That little diner will always be the
favorite source of fuel to those of us lucky enough to call Temple
home.
Temple was my home and another major
part of my block. I will never be able to walk through those doors
without being flooded with memories of the eight years I spent
inside. Inside that theater, I learned more about myself than I ever
could have on my own. I learned that hard work does not always pay
off in the ways we want, but that does not mean we should ever stop
working hard. I learned that you don't always get to be a star, but
you should never stop reaching for them. I also learned that, in
life, there is always more than meets the eye. No matter how great
something may look from the front, there may be duct tape holding it
together.
Standing in front of a microphone will
always be part of my block. No matter where we set up that day, no
matter what city, that mic was part of home. It was a safety net
holding us where we needed to be. On the days when I was truly
failing in front of the people who made up my world, I would reach
out and hold that microphone to steady myself. So, when I was
standing on the stage at Depot Park hitting more notes flat than on
key, the familiarity of my surroundings gave me the power to not run
away. The feel of “normal” under my hands let me choose fight
over flight.
My block will always be home to my
family, the people at my church, the Temple Teens, and other friends.
It will also be home to the “crazy clock guy” who rode around
town proclaiming the end of the world while holding a clock over his
head dressed in choir robes. My block is home to Benita, who you
could see coming a mile away in one of her many holiday sweaters. It
will be home to Lillian, the child who I nannied for two hand a half
years. My block is home to every enemy I ever made and every crush I
ever loved. In my mind, they will never get to leave my block.
My block is my home, but I have never
wanted to leave a place more. I always dreamed of going beyond. To
me, beyond was always better than what I had. Beyond was getting a
lead in a play because surely that would be more fun. Beyond was
going to public school, because then I would be happy. My beyond was
watching friends go off to college and dreaming of the day I could
go, too. My beyond was anywhere outside of NC that I had yet it see.
It was NYC; it was Hawaii; it was Paris; and it was Rome. My beyond
was the girl I wanted to see when I looked in the mirror or stepped
on the scales. It was everything I ever wanted and did not have.
Now I am beyond my block. I live in a
new town and have a new life. I am in school like all my friends and
am making my own choices. My beyond is still made up of all the
things I want to do in life, but it is also made up of something
more. My beyond is a milkshake with friends. My beyond is singing off
key to the world. My beyond is duct taping sets back together. It is
hugging a lady in a singing hat; it is seeing a man with a broken
clock. My beyond is the place I called home.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
A Lessen Learned
Sometimes in life,
there are moments that can never be forgotten. The little lessons
that reach their way into you mind and refuse to move. Weaving their
way into our thoughts, words and actions, they become switch points.
As a child grows, they will encounter many events that will change
the way they think and feel forever. Set to the whimsical background
of childhood mischief, I was taught a lesson that I have never been
able to shake. The lesson is simple; sometimes you have to be brave
and own up to your mistakes. Although it was not world changing, it
was mind awakening. No matter what you have done in the past, lying
about it does not make it go away.
Standing in the
kitchen of my childhood home, I heard the sounds of my older siblings
playing in the basement. Just like that, my inner devil came out.
With a gleeful smile, and that impish look that only true a
trouble-maker can have, I snapped into action. Creeping across the
room, I checked for things that might foil my plan. In this case,
that stumbling block was my mother. Like a secret agent, I poked my
head around the corner to assess the safety of my mission. There she
sat, eyes trained on her computer screen, and I knew I could get away
with it. As long as she was looking at her Email, she was not looking
at me or the basement door. Back across the room I ran, until I was
standing in front of the door. Reaching arms up high above my head, I
slid the dead-bolt into place. Now they would be trapped down there
forever, and mom would never know it was me. With one last demonic
laugh, I skipped off to my room to await dinner.
soon the banging
started, and I knew that I had won. “Mom, MOM, we're stuck!” More
thumps, bangs, and yelling followed. However, soon a flaw started
working its way into my plan; mothers are a lot smarter than I gave
them credit for. Soon their yelling was replaced by the stern bellow,
“Rebekah Dare, you get in here right now.” Trading in my horns
for a halo, I altered my expression to the other one that
trouble-makers have trademarked; I put on a face of pure innocence.
“Yes, is it time for dinner?” My big blue eyes batted up at her
in a “there is no way you can pin this on me” kind of way.
“Rebekah, is there something you want to tell me?” “No Mommy,
why?” “ You know why, and I know you did it.” “Did what?”
Now she gave me the look that any mother of four has mastered. Her
eyes where drilling holes into the very depths of my soul and sucking
every ounce of childhood joy out of my body. With proverbial steam
pouring from her nostrils, she gave me one more chance. “Only five
people live in this house, two were in the basement when it was
locked, Katherine is too small to do it on her own, and I know that I
did not do it.” Like a matador facing down a charging bull, I
readied myself and simply said, “Well, I didn't do it.” There,
she had to believe me now; I was free. “Go to your room and don't
come out until you can tell the truth.” Now I lost it, “But I did
not do it!” I screamed. Feet stomping and tears streaming, I
tragically marched to my cell.
Throwing myself onto
the floor, I plotted against the unjust regime that I was ruled by.
For some reason, I continued to yell that I did not do it, despite
knowledge to the contrary. I stayed in there so long that I missed
dinner, unable to accept defeat, until, at last, it clicked. I had,
in fact, locked them in the basement and there was no injustice in my
purgatory. Contrary to my plan, it was me who was locked away as
they roamed free. I was not missing dinner because I locked the door
but rather because I was lying about it. There was only one way to
make this right. I told my mother the tale and apologized to all
involved. Soon, that night became no more than a far-off memory to
everyone but me. Though not every
situation is as simple as that night, I often remember it when life
gets hard. My mistakes are mine to bear. No matter what it is that
was done, I can't hope to fix it until I own up to it. I will be
stuck in my room with no dinner, until I eat the only thing left, my
pride.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Pure Imagination
Imagination is a
gift that few people can claim. Sometimes, if they are lucky, it can
slip out into whatever medium they use to express themselves. A
stroke of a paintbrush, the lines in a dancer’s body, and the words
on a page often serve as window to the soul. Then there are those who
will never need more than their mind. They can slip into their own
world no matter where they are, never needing more than the will to
do so. My little sister is one of those people. From a young and
tender age, she was never tied down to reality. The rules of this
world were irrelevant. She could be and do whatever her heart could
dream up. Looking past the limits of the impossible, she found
something magical; she found a freedom that few will ever enjoy.
As a child, my
mother found it difficult to punish my sister for her wrong doings.
Unlike with most children, taking away her favorite toy had no
effect. Twigs, rocks, small household items, and even shoelaces
served her purpose. Each would take on a role in her elaborate games
of make-believe that sometimes would span for weeks at a time. To
her, that rock was a princess, who in a moment of bravery had charged
off on a quest to break the curse that was plaguing her lifelong
friend. Racing to the river, she would become trapped by an angry
troll, who today would be played by a fork. Calling on the powers of
the rainbow, she could thwart the fiend and proceed, once more, on
her journey. That rock would battle every monster in the book, and a
few only known to my sister, each with a unique set of skills.
Even when she was
not holding anything solid, you can be sure that she was still
playing some game. In her beautiful mind, she had built a whole world
for her and her friends to play. Though no one could see them, I
truly believe that at least to her, they were really there. George,
Fred, James, Susan, Kathy, Michael, the three Lulu sisters, and
countless others, all lived in a realm full of magic and adventure.Sometimes
she would take my hand and guide me to her world. Though I did my
best, it was never more than a silly game to me. Though I could play
along like most kids do, I don't think I was truly seeing it the way
she was. I always had one foot firmly planted on my bedroom floor,
keeping me anchored to the real world. I do not know what Gorge
looked like, and I think she did. As I grew older, I began to resent
her and her silly games. I did not want to play make-believe anymore.
I was too grown up for such a childish pastime. When would she learn
to wake up? At one point, she would come back to reality. Being the
sister I was, I began to tell her such things. I called her a baby
and dumb. When she would ask me to play with her, I would tell her
simply to just grow up already.
I regret that more
than many other choices I have made in life. After a while of my
torment, she began to take my words to heart. She stopped wanting me
to play her games with her. In that act, I lost a closeness with her
that I may never get back. Pretty soon her games stopped altogether.
I had told her to grow up, and she was listening. However, I don't
think she could every truly let go. Every now and then, I see that
look in her eye, and I know that her mind has separated itself from
this world and is doing something grand. She may not play with rocks
and forks, but she still has the power to dream. I believe that the
power to truly feel and see the world in your own way is the greatest
power of all; it is the power of pure imagination.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
All The Kings' Horses
* This is a paper that I turned into Mrs Cole, so I thought it was fitting to start my blog of with. If you do not understand why, please look at my first post "Welcome to my Locked Box"*
My brother has a
special kind of charm. One minute, he can knock me down and then
defend me from anyone else who tries. He is my greatest friend and
biggest foe. However, sibling revelries aside, it is always that
friend who comes out on top. I can always count on him to lift me up
when I am down and know just what to say to make it right. Never has
there been a time when I have been forced to question his love or
where I stand with him. I know that we can fight tooth and nail, and
in the end, I can still run to him with every worry. Every girl needs
a brother like mine, and I would gladly share him with the world.
Like a knight of the round table, he guards my heart and soul with
valor and might.
As I sit typing this
paper, I remembered that exactly one year ago today, I called my
brother with tears choking my voice. In a tale as old as time, I
found myself with a very broken heart. Yes
The only thing I wanted to do was run into his arms. At this point,
he lived out of the state, so I settled for a phone call. It was a
Saturday night, and he was out with friends, yet he picked up the
phone after only a few rings. When he heard the pain in my voice, he
stepped away from his friends and found the time to heal me. He
listened to me sob and tell my tale. When he spoke, it felt genuine
and not at all patronizing. In the most subtle way he helped me
through sadness and anger, and when the time was right, he knew how
to make me laugh. Soon I was in stitches as we planned an attack of
the Russian mafia on this unlucky fellow. In the space of an hour, he
put me together again.When all the kings’ horses and all the kings'
men could not, my brother picked up my pieces and made me whole.
My brother has never
held a sword, but he will always be a solder in my eyes. The foes he
brings down are so much greater than armies, they are the fears and
insecurity of a teenage girl. He fights off broken hearts, crushed
dreams and crippling fears. If he had been present the day poor
Humpty Dumpty took his fall, maybe he could have been put together
again.
Welcome to My Locked Box
I started this Blog because of my English teacher Mrs. Cole. She taught me how to look at my life and find those stories worth remembering. Whenever we would write something that she felt had come from our hearts, she would call it a "Locked Box Paper." This was her way of telling us that it was something to hold close forever. Now her class is over, but I still want my stories told. I want to find the voice of my past, and let it out. I do not care who reads this, it is not about that, it is about the way writing makes me feel; it makes me feel alive. If you feel the need to read this blog, then be ready. Hidden in this blog, will be the dreams, fears, hopes, trials, anger, and heart of the child that was once me. Welcome to my Locked Box, and welcome to my mind.
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