Yesterday morning I asked my dog, Ziva, if she wanted to go for a car ride. Of course, she said yes. She’ll go anywhere in the car, around the block or on a ten-hour trip to Petoskey, Michigan. She is just happy to be included.
We had three errands to run: go to the post office, go to the bank, and pick up my grand-dog Nellie. Before we could do any of those things, Ziva and I had a mishap. In a residential neighborhood, a speeding truck pulled out in front of us. Not only was the driver speeding, but he couldn’t see us as he approached the street that I was driving on because several thick evergreen trees grew on the corner of the lot. When he did see us, he drove even faster to avoid us, which was the better choice because he could not have stopped in time.
I was already going slow, but I had to use a heavy foot on the brakes, causing Ziva to slide from the front seat onto the floor. After I stopped, I honked my horn loud and long. The man stomped on his gas pedal, zooming away like an Indy race car driver after the green flag waves. If he thought he was fleeing from an angry woman, he was right. Had I been alone in the car, I would not have honked at him, as my honking would have come too late to serve as a warning. But my dog was tangled up on the floor, struggling to regain her footing. I used my horn to scream at him.
Ziva gingerly worked to untangle her feet. She slowly climbed back up on the front seat. Nothing appeared to be broken. For a moment I wondered if she would ever want to get in a car with me again.
Fritz, the dog who never forgot, Christmas 1962
When I was almost one, my mother had a car accident. Our two-year-old German Shepherd, Fritz, and I were in the car. After the accident the car was not drivable, but other than my mother having some cracked ribs, everyone was fine, including Fritz, who had been sleeping when the accident occurred. He never forgot that accident or that he had been sleeping instead of on guard. Afterward, if my mother was driving, no matter how long or short the journey, Fritz would sit on the seat and watch the road. His head might bob and his eyelids might droop, but he would jerk himself back to consciousness if he momentarily drifted off. If my father drove, Fritz would curl up and go to sleep. Fritz lived to be fifteen years old, and he never again slept in the car when my mother drove.
Nellie and I settled on the couch for some reading time. December 16, 2024
Ziva and I finished our errands then picked up Nellie. I was glad my grand-dog hadn’t been in the car when I had to slam on my brakes. She has an excellent memory, and in the future she might have become reluctant to get in my car.
As for Ziva, she was more than happy to get back in the car when we took Nellie home. And later on when I went to the grocery store, she was excited to ride along. She blamed neither me nor our car for her mishap, and she had been oblivious about the stupid, lead-footed pickup driver.
But after Ziva got up this morning, her head was crooked and she couldn’t seem to hold it straight, and when she walked, her gait was awkward. So, I decided to stay home with her. She ate a good breakfast, and after she moved around a bit, her stiffness disappeared and her head righted itself. People are always stiff and sore the day after an accident, so it would make sense animals would be the same.
Ziva is taking her morning nap as I write this. She’s happy to have me at home, and I’m happy to be with her. She is almost fourteen years old, and this morning, for a brief moment, I worried something might be wrong with her that couldn’t be fixed. After all, falling hurts more when we get older. We don’t bounce as well.
Ziva enjoying a good snooze after breakfast, resting up for our walk. December 17, 2024
A Place for Fido, Fitgers, Duluth, Minnesota. The stuffed toy display is straight ahead on the left.
Yesterday I went to a boutique pet store to buy my grand-dog Nellie a stuffed toy for Christmas. Next to the toy display stood a black, brown, and white, medium-sized dog. The dog looked at me and wagged its tail. Its big brown eyes were merry and its toothy smile was bright, so I asked its people, “May I pet your dog?”
“Of course,” said the woman, “she loves that.”
After petting the dog, I turned to the toys. I wanted one that didn’t squeal, squeak, groan, moan, or crackle because when my grand-dog sinks her teeth into one that makes noise, she is relentless.
The tri-colored dog turned with me. She watched me select toy after toy and squeeze it. The dog and I began a conversation.
“This one’s too high pitched,” I said to her.
“It sounds good to me. I like that toy,” the dog’s eager face said.
“This one makes a low noise,” I said. “It might work.” I kept it in my hand instead of hanging it back up.
Yeah, don’t even think about it — my grand-dog is cuter than your grand-dog.
“It sounds good to me. I like that toy, too.” The dog’s eager face filled with anticipation. She wanted a toy, but she was too well-mannered to do more than drop a hint. (My grand-dog is a Vizsla and she would have reached up and grabbed the toy. She’s not rude, mind you. She’s very, very sweet, but she’s a Vizsla. They’re impulsive. They’re enthusiastic. They’re larger than life.)
I tested toy after toy, telling the dog that each one was too loud, and each time the dog looked at me and the toy in my hand and answered, “It sounds good to me. I like that toy.”
I looked at the dog’s kind face. “My grand-dog will drive me crazy with these toys,” I told her. I decided even the toy that made a low noise was too noisy, so I hung it back up. I walked around the back of the display to see if there were more toys.
At this point I realized I’d been talking with the dog for several minutes while her owners looked at products on a display rack opposite the stuffed dog toys. Other than asking for permission to pet their dog and telling them I had a dog at home, I’d ignored them. It occurred to me this might be considered rude. It occurred to me that carrying on a conversation about noisy dog toys with a dog I’d just met might be considered strange. But in my defense, the dog was a good conversationalist.
I turned to look at the dog’s mother. “I guess you might think I’m a bit strange, standing here in a store having a conversation with your dog.”
“Not at all.” The woman smiled warmly. “I talk to her all the time. I would think it strange if you didn’t want to talk to her.”
Nice of her to say. I talk to my dog all the time too.
The owners and their dog moved on. And I wondered if they had stayed longer than they had wanted, thinking it rude to interrupt their dog’s conversation with a lady who was trying to find the right toy for her grand-dog.
I did find the right toy for Nellie. A nice clerk helped me find the only toy in the store without a squeaker. It looks like a cross between a squirrel and a beaver. Maybe it’s a woodchuck. Doesn’t matter. It’s nice looking, well-made, and quiet.
Ziva, September 2024. She’s loving the pâté.
I didn’t forget about my dog, Ziva. She’s not interested in toys, so I bought her two fancy-schmancy cans of dog food: Venison and Lentil Pâté and Lamb Recipe in Bone Broth. Both sound as though they should have come with a footman from Downton Abbey to dish up her food.
A heart without a pet is just an empty cockle shell.
When I returned home from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a mystical moonscape greeted me.
Last night I went to see a high school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Student actors dressed in colorful, eclectic, whimsical costumes, creating shimmering visions on the stage. They recited Shakespeare’s verse, never stumbling over their words. As the love potion delivered by Puck caused chaos and confusion, the energetic actors made their way on and off the stage, delivering humorous lines, catching the audience up in laughter. All of this on a stage decorated with cut-out trees so enchanting in their color changes, they almost stole the show.
During the quieter moments of the performance. I thought about the many high school and college plays I have seen over the years. All of those young people working together to create a moment of magic on a stage. A moment that would never be the same as the performance that came before, or the one that would come next. I thought about the long hours drama students spend rehearsing, creating sets, lighting the performance, making costumes. How they pass their time together, forging friendships and romances, talking about life and their dreams. Cracking inside jokes that only they understand, the bond of a shared experience. I thought about how young they are, with their whole lives ahead of them. I thought about how once these young thespians leave high school or college, they might never act upon a stage again.
Then I thought about Tom Lake by Ann Patchett, which I recently read and loved. Tom Lake is a story within a story. Lara Nelson, now in her fifties, owns a cherry orchard with her husband. Set in 2020 during the COVID lockdown, Lara’s three adult daughters are staying at the farm with their parents. Because of the pandemic, the family of five works the cherry farm without the usual hired help. Picking cherries is time-consuming, monotonous work. To pass the time, Lara, in a series of flashbacks, recounts the story of her summer in Tom Lake, where as a young woman she performed in a summer stock production of Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Even though Patchett’s novel is set during COVID, it’s not about the pandemic–at all. It’s a beautifully written, heart-wrenching coming of age story.
Last night as I watched the young actors perform, I wondered about their coming-of-age stories. I thought about my own coming-of-age stories.
And that is what good literature does. It slumbers in a corner of your brain, until something in your present world nudges it, and it lives once again in your imagination, giving meaning to both the world that is your life and the world of make believe.
Nellie “Bly” ponders an important question regarding investigative journalism: “Isn’t it time for lunch?”
On October 10, my grand-dog Nellie, whom I like to refer to as Nellie “Bly,” went on assignment with me. I was working on an article for Northern Wilds magazine. Our mission was to interview one bookstore owner in Two Harbors, Minnesota, and one bookstore manager in Grand Marais, Minnesota, and to take photos. Nellie Bly was game. (Although, if she had been given a choice, she would have rather chased small game instead of facts.)
Going on a reporting job with a dog is fun, but it requires more time. We were gone for over six hours. In addition to doing interviews and snapping photos, our assignment included four walks, a lunch break, and a supper break.
Nellie waited in the van while I did the hard-boiled investigative work inside the bookstores, asking the managers about the history of each bookstore and which books they anticipated would be hot for the holidays. Good investigative journalism means I had to ask the tough questions too, such as “What is your favorite holiday book? and “Do you have any holiday traditions involving books?” Of course, in the name of gathering evidence, I bought some books at each store.
Nellie got paid in food and treats. However, when I ate my Happy Meal for lunch, she made it clear that she wanted to exchange her bowl of dried kibble for my cheeseburger. And when I had my six-inch sub for supper, she again made it clear she wanted to swap her bowl of kibble for my sandwich. There were no trades. I told her life in the field as a reporter is filled with sacrifices.
Perhaps, if this article goes over well, it will lead to a TV series, where I travel the country, reporting on independent bookstores, asking probing questions about each bookstore’s origins and what’s selling well, all while spending my writing paycheck on books. Maybe Nellie Bly would like to be my assistant. We could travel in a RV with a driver so I could read and she could look out the window. I can hear Nellie now — trying to negotiate a better meal deal and asking for top billing in the credits. With her good looks, she would be the star of the show in no time anyway.
[To read my article click here: Northern Wilds, pages 14-15.]
[I reviewed Two States of Single for Wisconsin Writers Association (WWA) almost a year ago. Julie Jacob’s book is a collection of memoir essays. I loved this book the first time around. In October 2024, I met Julie at the WWA writer’s conference in La Crosse. I was an excited fan. It was fun to meet someone whose book gave me such pleasure. When I returned home from the conference, I reread Julie’s book. I’m happy to say, I loved it just as much the second time around, even though I knew how each essay ended. So I’m posting my review that was posted on the WWA website.]
Two States of Single: Essays on Family, Love, and Living Solo by Julie A. Jacob is a collection of well-crafted, engaging essays. In her opening essay, “Anything You Could Want,” readers meet Jacob’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, sister, and parents as she recounts the parties her mom and dad hosted when she was a child and living in southern Wisconsin. With humor and tender nostalgia, Jacob describes her parents working together as a team to provide a bounty of food and love for the guests who would soon arrive. In this essay, Jacob recognizes a credo by which her family lived: “They knew that life was filled with bumps so they enjoyed themselves while they could.” This theme threads its way throughout her book.
Jacob’s essays continue to follow the arc of her life as she describes her years in Chicago; a daring adventure in Brazil; joining sports clubs for young professionals; buying her own condo, then later on a house; taking a chance on love; caring for her aging parents; and losing her parents. Throughout Jacob hopes to marry and have children, but as the years slip by, neither marriage nor children happen for her. However, her desire to find a soulmate does not drive the book. Instead, what shines through in Jacob’s essays are her decisions to live in the present and to explore new roads rather than waiting for something that may never happen.
Vivid writing and crisp dialogue breathe life into Jacob’s essays. Readers will feel they know the people and places she writes about. Her essays are more than just good stories. They resonate because of Jacob’s ability to convey why each story matters, both to her and to her readers. In memoir writing a writer is supposed to do more than tell an anecdote. The essay needs to answer the question, “So why should I, the reader, care about this?” Jacob’s essays impact readers because as she writes about her past, she answers that question every time. As readers discover why each of these moments are important in Jacob’s life, they are given the gift of being able to do the same with the significant events in their lives.
By the time I finished Jacob’s collection of essays, I found myself longing to meet with a group of fellow readers, sip a good latte, and discuss Jacob’s essays. Her book would make a wonderful nonfiction read for a book club. Because married or single, male or female, we all have stories and insights to share about our choices, careers, loves, family, sorrows, and joys.
Ever have someone tell you to keep your head down? I interpret that to mean I should put my head in a book. And sometimes a book is the best place to be. I’ve been hanging out in a lot of books lately.
The Ski Jumpers by Peter Geye. I read The Ski Jumpers because I read The Lighthouse Road and Safe from the Sea, both beautifully written novels. Geye writes stories with brooding, flawed characters who are self-reliant and tough, yet vulnerable, which makes me like them and root for them. The vivid landscapes in Geye’s novels become a character that his protagonists must work with and sometimes fight against. In The Ski Jumpers family secrets gather like dust bunnies hiding in the dark, under a heavy, nearly immovable antiquated piece of furniture. Because each family member knows only a part of their family’s secrets, misconceptions develop and resentments grow. Pops Bargaard loves his wife, Bett, but she struggles with her own demons, one of which is her inability to love both of her sons. She dotes on Anton while despising Johannes “Jon.” Pops, an accomplished ski jumper in his youth, introduces his sons to the sport. Ski jumping becomes an escape for Pops and his sons. And as the years go by, ski jumping becomes what Pops and his sons talk about when they are still hiding secrets, when they aren’t ready to talk about their pain, when they are holding on to happier times. One of the joys in Geye’s novel is his detailed, vivid descriptions of ski jumping, which fly off the page, taking me along, letting me ski jump with Johannes and Anton. At some point while reading Geye’s book, I skipped to the “Acknowledgments,” and as I had come to believe, I found that he grew up ski jumping, which explained how he could write so intimately about it.
Still Waters by Matt Goldman. I read Still Waters because I’ve read three of Goldman’s Nils Shapiro detective novels: Gone to Dust, Broken Ice, and The Shallows, and enjoyed them all. Still Waters is one of Goldman’s stand-alone novels. It’s a murder mystery, but one that is solved with the help of ordinary people. Siblings Liv and Gabe, who are estranged, must reunite for their older brother Mack’s funeral in their rural northern Minnesota hometown. Mack’s death has been ruled a medical event, but Liv and Gabe receive emails from their dead brother saying he was murdered. While Liv and Gabe try to make sense of Mack’s email and uncover the truth about his death, someone else dies, and it’s clearly murder. Liv and Gabe discover mysterious letters in a box that belonged to their deceased mother, and they suspect the letters hold the key to Mack’s death and the second murder. This smartly woven mystery with multiple theories and a number of potential suspects kept me guessing. Plus, I could read it before I went to bed and still drift off to sleep without checking under the bed. (I like mysteries without psychopathic serial killers.) Goldman’s mystery does have some scary moments, but only enough to make the heart race a little.
Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing. I read Endurance by Lansing because I like reading about shipwrecks. (Click here for proof.) The Endurance isn’t wrecked on a shoal or reef, she isn’t tossed over by a violent storm, and she isn’t irreparably wounded in battle. Instead, she has purposefully sailed into the Weddell Sea filled with ice floes, looking for a place to land on Antarctica. She is stalled by the ice, which sandwiches her in a death grip, squeezing and squeezing until she groans, and parts of her snap like toothpicks. After becoming unseaworthy, her crew have no choice but to abandon her and their mission to be the first to cross the width of Antarctica using sled dogs. Now the twenty-eight men must survive the beyond-bitter cold, the howling winds, and the snow and rain while hoping to rescue themselves. When Alfred Lansing wrote this book, he had access to the daily journals kept by some of the men, and he was able to interview some of the survivors. Lansing took great care to write an accurate and descriptive account of one of the greatest survival stories, and his book is a tribute to the human ability to put one foot in front of the other and to cling to hope. When Endurance was published in 1959, it was a critical success, but not a commercial one. By the time the book became a commercial success in 1986, Lansing was dead. If you read this book curl up with a blanket and a cup of something hot! This book chilled me to the bone!
The Bullet that Missed: A Thursday Murder Club Mystery by Richard Osman. I read this book because I read the first two books in the Osman’s series, and they were fun, fun, fun. These murder mysteries are a treat. They are cozy but do have some un-cozy scenes. (And yay! No serial killers, which are so overdone.) Most of the main characters live in a retirement home in the English countryside. While they participate in some of the traditional retirement activities, they have one that’s unusual — they meet on Thursdays to look at cold cases that haven’t been solved. The unsolved murders somehow become entangled in a new murder case, which then also involves the police. One of the characters, Elizabeth, is a former MI-6 agent, and as it turns out, it’s not easy for her to give up the thrills of spying and sleuthing. Her fellow retirees join in the criminal-case-cracking adventures. This mystery series earns top kudos from me for its characters, its dialogue, and its plots. Most of the characters are senior citizens, but that doesn’t mean they have checked out of life. The older characters in the book are presented as people, who all have the same hopes, dreams, desires, and brains as the younger characters, even if the older ones do occasionally battle aches and pains. Osman’s snappy dialogue creates characters that are witty and quick thinking, conversations often drip with verbal irony and humorous understatements. The criminal characters are well-developed, too. They are brilliant and devious, but, of course, never a match for the Thursday Murder Club. While you could read these books out of sequence, I suggest they are best read in order.
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I read this book because I walked into Apostle Islands Booksellers and saw it prominently displayed on a shelf. I’ve had people say to me, “Have you read Slaughterhouse-Five? No? Well, you should!” I’ve read articles where writers suggest to their readers, “If you haven’t read Slaughterhouse-Five, you should!” And there it was — Vonnegut’s book — on a shelf, looking at me, waiting for me, so I bought it. Slaughterhouse-Five is described as an antiwar book focused on the firebombing of Dresden in 1945. It follows Billy Pilgrim, a WWII veteran, who time travels from his old age to Dresden, to his wedding day, to life with his family, to a veteran’s hospital, to a planet in outer space, to his youth, like a pinball pinging across a fantasy-themed pinball game. I’m not listing Billy Pilgrim’s time travels in the necessarily correct order; besides, as the story unfolds, Billy travels back and forth among these places in time. But Vonnegut clearly had a plan, and as I read the book, it not only made sense to me, it all worked seamlessly. I never felt like I was being yanked around. A book like Slaughterhouse-Five is hard to explain in words. I like it for its satire, its experimentation, its ambiguity and clarity, and its themes. I like Vonnegut’s simple, but powerful sentences. Slaughterhouse-Five is often spoken of as anti-war novel, and that theme runs through it. However, Vonnegut’s slim novel is thematically rich, and there is much more being said than war is terrible. As I read the novel, I sometimes thought about “The Swimmer” by John Cheever. Raymond Carver’s short stories also came to mind.
Time to go keep my head down in a book. The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store by James McBride is waiting for me.
Next year I’m going to Shetland. I’ve been learning as much as I can about the group of islands, which are so far north of Scotland that most maps represent Shetland with an arrow that points north and the words to Shetland. And you have to take their word for it that it’s up there, beyond the edge of the map.
I bought Shetland: Your Essential Travel Guide (2024) by Laurie Goodlad. Her travel guide has a section titled “What to Read before You Arrive” with a list of fiction and nonfiction books. I chose Catherine Munro’s Ponies at the Edge of the World (2022) because where I grew up, we lived next to a farmer who had a small herd of American Shetland ponies, a cross between Shetland ponies and other horses. My sisters and I spent hours petting those ponies and feeding them tall grasses. The farmer who owned them taught us which grasses his ponies liked and how to hold our hands flat while the ponies nibbled their treats from our palms so our fingers wouldn’t get chomped.
What is this book about?
Catherine Munro is an anthropologist who specializes in human-animal relationships. She spent a year in Shetland to study the relationship between humans and Shetland ponies for her PhD. She interviewed people who spent their lives raising and taking care of Shetland ponies. For some Shetlanders, the tradition of caring for the ponies goes back generations.
While Munro’s book focuses on the relationship between Shetland ponies and people, she also describes some of the astonishing wildlife and the mystical landscapes that make the Shetland Islands one of the most unique and beautiful places on earth. She also brings to life the pragmatic and reserved but warm-hearted and community-minded people who live in Shetland.
What did I love about this book?
In her book, Munro describes why human-animal relationships are so important. The bond between the Shetland ponies and the people who raise them, care for them, and love them is fascinating. Shetland ponies developed over thousands of years, adapting to the climate and the terrain of Shetland. These small, thick-coated, hardy ponies became the perfect workmates for crofters who worked the land. Munro talks about the concerns for the survival of Shetland ponies as a distinct breed. She asks us to think about the importance of animals, to see them as our equals, and to understand that a respectful relationship with animals is essential for the survival of all species, including people.
Yesterday I read a blogger’s post stating that the Slender-billed Curlew has been officially declared extinct by scientists, a stark and sad announcement. To read the blog, click here. We need to do better for our earth and the plants and animals that inhabit it.
[You can follow Catherine Munro on Instagram at catherine_m_munro.]
I forgot to take a picture of the pancakes after they were fresh out of the pan, but I think the dogs are more interesting! Ziva (l) and Bogey (r), my mom’s dog
After I made the Pumpkin Bundt Cake, I had six ounces, or 3/4 of a cup, of pumpkin left. (Cooking math is the most important kind of math, and if I could go back in time to my freshman algebra class, I would tell Mr. W, “Who cares about solving for x — there is no x in cooking!”)
So, what to do with the leftover pumpkin? I hate to throw food away. It’s like throwing money in the garbage. And there are other more important considerations when food is thrown away. The waste ends up in landfills. The energy used to raise, cultivate, package, and distribute the food has been wasted. All that investment and those expended resources with no caloric intake to show for it. And as weather patterns change, food will become more scarce.
My husband suggested I make pumpkin pancakes, so I found a recipe that called for a 1/2 cup of pumpkin. All you math phenoms will know this left me with two ounces or a 1/4 cup of leftover pumpkin. (Now, I’m just showing off my math skills.)
This morning I made a batch of pumpkin pancakes, which yielded nine pancakes. We have a few leftover, but my husband will eat them. I put sliced bananas and maple syrup on mine. My husband opted for butter and maple syrup on his.
I still have two ounces of pumpkin. I could try making a pumpkin spiced latte, but that looks like a lot of work, and I don’t have anything to froth the milk. I could try feeding some to my dog, Ziva, but she’s turned her nose up at pumpkin in the past. I could just eat it. I tried a teaspoon when I made the cake, and it’s not bad. The two ounces are back in the fridge. I think I’ll mix them in with my oatmeal along with a sliced banana.
Simply Pumpkin Pancakes
Ingredients
Yields 4 servings of two pancakes each. (I ended up with nine pancakes.)
1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
¼ cup white sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 cup milk (I used whole milk)
½ cup pumpkin puree
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Directions
Sift flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and nutmeg together in a bowl.
Whisk milk, pumpkin, egg, and oil together in a bowl. Pour milk mixture into flour mixture and stir until just moistened. Batter will be slightly lumpy.
Heat a lightly oiled griddle over medium-high heat to 350 degrees F. Drop batter by large spoonfuls (I used a ¼ measuring cup) onto the griddle and cook until bubbles form and the edges are dry, 1 to 3 minutes. Flip and cook until browned on the other side, about 1 minute more. Repeat with remaining batter.
Yesterday I made a pumpkin bundt cake from scratch. I discovered the recipe on the blog In Diane’s Kitchen. I’m proving a point to Betty Crocker.
On Tuesday I called Betty Crocker. Well, not a real Betty Crocker because she doesn’t exist. Instead, I talked to a representative in the General Mills customer care department. I lodged a complaint because Betty Crocker cake mixes have shrunk — again.
For most of my life, cake mixes were 18.25 ounces. I have some great cake recipes that call for an 18.25-ounce cake mix and build from there, like a decadent chocolate rum cake and a tasty pistachio cake. So about ten years ago when the cake companies dropped the mixes to 15.25 ounces, I wasn’t happy. At the time, I called Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines to complain. (Unlike Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines was a real person, but he died in 1959.) Neither company cared that I was concerned my cake recipes could become obsolete — 15.25 was their new standard. They weren’t rude, not at all. They were apologetic and sympathetic, but I could read between the lines — I could like it or lump it. (The phrase customer care is an oxymoron.) Fortunately, my cake recipes still worked with the 15.25-ounce size.
But last week I discovered there has been another shrinkage. Betty’s cake mixes are now 13.25 ounces. So far Duncan Hines is still weighing in at 15.25 ounces, as is Pillsbury. When I called Betty Crocker’s consumer care department on Tuesday, I told them I would no longer buy their cake mixes. I explained that I wasn’t about to experiment by using a cake mix that is 5 ounces less than the amount called for in the recipe. I further explained that if other companies followed suit, I would make all my cakes from scratch because I have some good recipes. The customer care representative was sympathetic and kept saying, “I’m sorry about that.” She said she would pass my concerns along. But I know nothing will change, except in the future when the cake mix loses more weight.
You can google to find out how much extra flour and other ingredients, like baking soda, to add to the prepared mix. But go ahead and call me “my father’s daughter” on this one: I’m not buying a product then adding what the company should have added in order to make up the difference. One website suggested buying two boxes of cake mix, and adding six tablespoons from the second box to the first box. Then I was to seal up the leftover cake mix and save it to use for other cakes. AS IF!
So yesterday to prove my point to Betty Crocker, I made a pumpkin bundt cake — from scratch. Because I follow the blog In Diane’s Kitchen, the recipe landed in my email a couple of weeks ago. Pumpkin mixed with a dash of cinnamon, ground cloves, and ground ginger makes this cake taste like a slice of autumn. It has the consistency of a pound cake, which pairs well with coffee. And, in my experience, baking a pound cake is more forgiving than baking a regular cake.
Some thoughts to keep in mind if you make this cake:
Diane recommends eating the cake with vanilla ice cream. I’d go with a creamy vanilla custard. However, this recipe calls for three sticks of butter and six eggs, so I skipped the ice cream. I’ve never baked a cake recipe that called for six eggs. This reminded me of one of my all-time favorite novels City of Thieves by David Benioff. Set in Russia in WWII, the two main characters in the novel have been arrested and are to be executed. However, a powerful Soviet colonel promises to pardon them if they can find a dozen eggs for his daughter’s wedding cake. There is war and famine, but the colonel wants his daughter to have an elegant wedding and a big cake, and so an epic quest for a dozen eggs begins. And this bundt cake? That might serve twelve people at the most? It gets six eggs!
The recipe Diane shared says to spray the bundt pan with cooking oil. I used Baker’s Joy. When it was time to remove the cake from the pan, it came out like a dream.
Diane noted that while the recipe said to bake for 60 minutes, she needed to bake the cake for 64 minutes. So did I, but I started with 60 minutes.
I will make this cake again. It was worth the extra time and effort. Besides while I made the cake, I listened to A Lady’s Guide to Gossip and Murder, the second book in Dianne Freeman’s Countess of Harleigh Mystery series.
[To read my review of Freeman’s first book in the series, click here.]
Writing Near the Lake 