I grew up with a dad who is an anthropologist. While my parents were married, this meant parties with long haired hippie type grad students drinking beer in the sala, and good snacks. We were banished to our rooms (mostly) but the spoils of victory were grand. Oniony sour cream dip, potato chips, and whatever leftovers my mom couldn't be arsed to clean after the party were on hand after the folks crashed, along with the occasional wine dregs. Ya know. We had no idea all this hairy grad student banter masked much deeper problems in our parent's marriage, or that bigger, more onerous childhood stressors loomed ahead.
Anthropologists leave hearth and home for exotic locales to study hunter gatherers, dig up dino bones and whatnot, and perhaps live out their Edgar Rice Burroughs childhood fantasies. Barack Obama knows this well, but unfortunately I didn't have the smarts to parlay the detachment and cool headedness that comes with being an anthropologists child into political superstardom. Meh. I DO remember my dad waxing eloquent at the table about how NASA talked of sending an anthropologist on an expedition to Mars, and how he would love to be that guy. I was maybe nine years old and remember feeling bewildered and hurt. I didn't see this as an opportunity for adventure for me pater; I simply couldn't fathom how he could leave me. But like I said, anthropologists leave to go study the things they study, and while it isn't like having a parent off fighting a war, gone is just gone.
Now I am gone. My children are old enough to live alone, but it still feels wrong. Here is the thing though: we all have to make a living. We get old and need stuff. I took a look at the lives of my mother and a couple other aging women in my family and felt cold terror. I got a job in Oman, packed my bags, and off I went. Now I see my children once a year, and life goes on. Without me.
So I play on the beach at Faziya, go to the Hilton and smoke shisha with my husband in the middle of the night at the weekend, visit with friends, cook dinner, and generally live a full life. And I dream. I dream about going home. I dream about going home in ten years to a restored farmhouse and making jam with my daughter. My model handsome husband is there making shakshuka for everyone. My aunt is aging gracefully, sewing aprons and puffing on her electronic cigarette. My grandkids play there in the summer and pick blackberries. My mother is alive and well and taking a nap in the living room. My dad is still kicking ass and taking names.
This life in Oman isn't meant to be a grand adventure for me. It is, as it happens, but that is not the point. I am storing up for a different future, one that doesn't involve being gone. It isn't killing me to be so far from home; it isn't a terminal condition. It is depressing as hell sometimes to always miss the people you love, every day. Good thing I am an anthropologist's daughter.
Anthropologists leave hearth and home for exotic locales to study hunter gatherers, dig up dino bones and whatnot, and perhaps live out their Edgar Rice Burroughs childhood fantasies. Barack Obama knows this well, but unfortunately I didn't have the smarts to parlay the detachment and cool headedness that comes with being an anthropologists child into political superstardom. Meh. I DO remember my dad waxing eloquent at the table about how NASA talked of sending an anthropologist on an expedition to Mars, and how he would love to be that guy. I was maybe nine years old and remember feeling bewildered and hurt. I didn't see this as an opportunity for adventure for me pater; I simply couldn't fathom how he could leave me. But like I said, anthropologists leave to go study the things they study, and while it isn't like having a parent off fighting a war, gone is just gone.
Now I am gone. My children are old enough to live alone, but it still feels wrong. Here is the thing though: we all have to make a living. We get old and need stuff. I took a look at the lives of my mother and a couple other aging women in my family and felt cold terror. I got a job in Oman, packed my bags, and off I went. Now I see my children once a year, and life goes on. Without me.
So I play on the beach at Faziya, go to the Hilton and smoke shisha with my husband in the middle of the night at the weekend, visit with friends, cook dinner, and generally live a full life. And I dream. I dream about going home. I dream about going home in ten years to a restored farmhouse and making jam with my daughter. My model handsome husband is there making shakshuka for everyone. My aunt is aging gracefully, sewing aprons and puffing on her electronic cigarette. My grandkids play there in the summer and pick blackberries. My mother is alive and well and taking a nap in the living room. My dad is still kicking ass and taking names.
This life in Oman isn't meant to be a grand adventure for me. It is, as it happens, but that is not the point. I am storing up for a different future, one that doesn't involve being gone. It isn't killing me to be so far from home; it isn't a terminal condition. It is depressing as hell sometimes to always miss the people you love, every day. Good thing I am an anthropologist's daughter.
Yeah...I saw this.
The Anthropologist
I am nothing if not adaptable.
As for the friggin cake, it was a disaster. They all are since changing the gas tank for a full one. There are hot spots, and the fine tuning I did to find 180C is out the door. Crikey. I have two cakes on order, and thank goodness they are for friends, because I dread approaching the oven again. I have burned cakes that aren't even going to appear in the blog!
Anywhoooooo....the Red Velvet Cake Debacle
Red Velvet Cake
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened to room temp
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 large egg yolks
3 T red food coloring
1 1/2 t. vanilla extract
1/4 cup cocoa
1 t salt
2 1/4 cups sifted cake flour ( I used all purpose)
1 cup milk w 1 tsp added white vinegar
1 t baking soda
Preheat the oven to 350/180C. Grease and flour 2 9 inch cake pans.
Cream the butter and sugar on medium. Add the egg yolks one at a time and cream until light and fluffy. Add the food coloring and vanilla extract and blend. Add the dry ingredients with the buttermilk alternately.
Divide the batter between the two pans and smooth. Bake 20 minutes, or until toothpick clean. Cool in pans 10 minutes and invert to a wire rack. Cool completely and frost with the white frosting of your choice. Heck buy it in a can.
I was disgusted with this cake. First, I burned it. I've made this cake before, and it was edible, though not spectacular. It's just too dry. I suspect the poor quality red food coloring found at Lulus may have something to do with it. Next time (and there has to be a next time because my friend has kids who love red velvet cake) I will add the entire eggs instead of just the yolks. I will also try not to burn it.
It looks better than it was. We kept it on the counter a couple days, then to the trash it went. What a waste!
What I aimed for. Normal looking, but tasty. Gar!
If you have a good recipe for Red Velvet Cake, I'd love to see it. Third times the charm? Next post aims to be about the movie American Sniper so it may not be very pleasant. I am trying to get my stomach ready. We'll see.
Love,
Felicia El Aid
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