It's a hurricane! No, it's a post-tropical storm! No, it's Frankenstorm! Wait, it might be --

Today we report from somewhere on the East Coast, where we have just emerged from several days of anticipation and dire warnings and newscasts about impending Hurricane Sandy, and, less exciting, the hurricane itself. We were told that we should not be fooled by the fact that no one seemed to know, at any given moment, whether it was technically still a hurricane or, possibly, Rush Limbaugh. 

If all the media buildup was intended to goad citizens who were in the path of the storm into preparing in a prudent manner, it was pretty successful by most accounts. If all the buildup was intended to produce anxiety, it was hugely successful, at least by our own personal account.

Unlike a lot of storms, we had days to prepare for whatever this one would bring. And, therefore, days to worry. Of course we planned. We made oodles of Ziploc baggies of ice. We prudently stocked critical survival supplies, such as coffee (Hero) and chocolate (Princess). We always plan ahead, so we also made sure to root around until we found several half-used candles and flashlights with batteries of dubious age. 

In the end, however, we did NOT lose power, so we can happily stash the candles and flashlights until the next storm, at which time the batteries will be of even MORE dubious age.

The governor told everyone to stay home on the day the storm was supposed to greet us, which we were happy to comply with. If he had told everyone they should take the opportunity to have a long nap, we would have been happy to comply with that too.

We watched soberly, however, as photo after photo of the destruction left by Sandy flashed across the TV screen, and then we saw a dire warning: If the power went out, our local power company might not be aware of it.

Of course we would need to call to let them know. But we thought it might be prudent to address this possibility ahead of time, and considered calling the power company BEFORE the power went out.

Us: Um, hello.

Computerized voice at power company: If your power is out, press or say 1. If you see a downed wire, press or say 2. If you --

Us: Uh, yeah, our power's not out yet, but we just thought you should know that it MIGHT go out, with the storm and all, and --

Computer: I'm sorry, I did not understand that. Did you say your power was out?

Us (louder and slower, as if speaking to someone very old and deaf, or possibly dead): No, we said it MIGHT go out --

Computer: Is this an emergency?

Us: Well, not yet, but it --

Computer: If this is an emergency, please say Yes.

Us: (silence)

Computer: Thank you. Please hang up now so that we can assist those who are having a true emergency.

Us: But --

Computer: Goodbye. (click)

(Loud boom, and everything goes dark.)

Us: Hey, it's an emergency now!

Telephone: (dial tone)

At one point the power did go out, plunging us into darkness. We remained calm; not a muscle twitched, because we were not moving until we had some light, and we could not remember where we had strategically placed the candles and flashlights. It could have been a long night, sitting frozen in place.

Fortunately the power came on after about 10 seconds, but the Hero took the brief outage as a warning sign and promptly turned off his computer before the power went out again and stayed out. He found a candle, matches, and a book, and sat on the couch, ready to be plunged back into the nineteenth century (but without outhouses). I kept working placidly at my computer, and after several minutes with no flickering of the lights the Hero decided that perhaps we were going to remain in the twenty-first century after all, and reluctantly gave up his anticipated reading by candlelight.

After everything was over, and life went about much as usual, we were left to ponder the experience -- mostly, what do we do with all those Ziploc baggies of ice?

Bumpy cake lives!

As we head into the holiday season, the thoughts of some individuals are no doubt already whirling around upcoming holiday activities, such as baking. If your thoughts, personally, are NOT whirling around holiday baking, that's okay: Your thoughts can be directed toward someone else's baking, hoping that they will make way too many cookies and beg you to take some.

I once asked my mom why I did not have, as so many other adults seem to have, fond memories of baking at her side when I was little -- my girlish hands grasping the big wooden spoon to stir the heavy dough, excitedly watching cookies rise through the oven door, licking the bowl.*

"You were never interested," she said.

Oh.

But one thing I WAS interested in when I was little, and which we had in abundance thanks to my mother's job at Sander's bakery, was bumpy cake. Bumpy cake was a rich chocolate cake with little mounds of cream on the top, covered in chocolate. Really, what are memories of homemade baking compared to memories of eating bumpy cake?

Sander's eventually went out of business, though not from lack of support on our part, but happily some of their products continue to be sold in drug stores and grocery stores. And an airport bookstore in Michigan, where I found tiny jars of Sander's famous hot fudge sauce and something called Caramel Pear Sauce. I took one jar of each to the counter to purchase them.

"Today must be Sander's ice cream topping day," the guy said. "Everyone's been buying them. And two seems to be the magic number."

"Well, you know, one jar for me, one for someone else..." I said.

"Oh," he said. "I thought it was TWO for me..."

He seemed to be intimately acquainted with the caramel pear sauce. "You will LOVE that," he said enthusiastically. "It's a little heavy on the cinnamon if you eat it by itself, but otherwise, it's great."

I took it that by "eat it by itself" he meant, literally, "eat it by itself," with the assistance of a spoon and no other accompaniments, such as ice cream. In that case, I wasn't surprised it was a little heavy on the cinnamon.

So sometime soon, I plan to take some time to get reacquainted with a spoon, a tiny jar of Sander's hot fudge, and -- a product inspired by my favorite childhood dessert -- some Sander's Bumpy Cake Ice Cream. And I will make my own memories. And I will definitely lick the bowl.

______________
*For the record, even if I HAD baked with my mother when I was young, there would have been no licking of the bowl. To this day she chastizes me for doing so in my own kitchen, citing vague, dark stories of salmonella poisoning. She does not know any actual persons who became sick from eating uncooked dough, but that does not stop her from citing dark stories. I'll mention to her on the phone that I made brownies, or a three-layer cake with homemade frosting and marzipan decorations, and she will only be interested in one thing: "You didn't lick the bowl, did you?" This is probably the REAL reason I was not interested in baking.

The cider mill games

One of the joys of autumn in Michigan is visiting a cider mill. Basically, this is a place where you can buy festive fall food items loosely connected to apples and, more important, containing large quantities of sugar: apple cider, plain donuts and donuts dipped in sugar, caramel apples, sugar straight up, etc. The large quantities of sugar are then enjoyed on the grounds while lounging at picnic tables, or taken home to be enjoyed later or, as frequently happens with us, consumed while sitting in the car in the parking lot of the cider mill, with the heat blasting. This is, after all, October in Michigan, which is roughly equivalent to January in more moderate states.

But if you opt for eating your treats in the car or at home, you miss out on one of the other great features of most cider mills: bees. The bees are very friendly. Pretty much wherever you are, particularly if you have a glass of cider, the bees will want to be also. On any given day on a weekend during the fall, the ratio of bees to people at a cider mill is about 178 to 1. 

On our recent visit, we headed out to the yard with our cider and donuts. There, the time that should have been spent enjoying our treats was instead spent on intricate bee evasion maneuvers that would have done an army commander proud. There were only three other people outside, and they were not in possession of any food or drinks, so the bee-to-person-holding-sweet-beverages ratio rose to the level of Harry Potter fans to Harry Potter.

The bees seemed to instantly divine our maneuvers. Our trail resembled the ones sometimes shown in the "Family Circus" comic strip, wandering all over the neighborhood and up into trees, etc. We considered giving up one of our glasses of cider as a sacrifice to draw the bees' attention while we escaped with the other glass and the donuts, but we figured the bees already knew this trick.

Some thoughtful person had planted weapons around the yard: flyswatters. They worked very well, if you wanted to rile the bees up more than they already were. Our bag of donuts would have served this purpose just as well.

We cheered to ourselves when a bus full of teenagers pulled into the lot, figuring this would bring the bee ratio down significantly. We even went so far as to celebrate our expected liberation by sneaking a sip of our cider. Evidently the teachers had experience with the bees, though, and they piled everyone back onto the bus to enjoy their snacks.

We finally decided to pile back into our car too, so the Hero created a diversion while I fled to safety. I had to circle the car several times to make sure no bees were following me. The Hero jumped in after me, having narrowly escaped a bee slipping into his cider.

We had a little toast: to next year's trip to the cider mill. And next year's bees.

Plane talk

On a recent plane ride, the Hero immediately noticed something different once we were aboard.

"It's clean," he said, looking around. 

It was true. There were no scuffs or smudges on the seats in front of us, no tray tables looking like they might separate from their locking mechanism at any moment, and there was a discernible pattern to the carpet that did not involve crushed Cheerios or dried liquid stains.

We pondered this unique situation, wondering aloud what may have precipitated it, until the man on the other side of me informed us that the entire plane was brand new.

"So they could squeeze in more seats," he said.

"Ahh," we said. "At least it's really clean."

"Not for long," he predicted.

So, this was one of Southwest's new planes. As the flight attendants discussed what to do in case of a loss of cabin pressure and admonished us not to form a line for the bathroom no matter how much we needed to use it, I embarked upon an evaluation of our new surroundings. Here, based on a detailed scrutiny of seat 13B and its immediate environs, are my thoroughly unbiased findings.

More legroom, check. Most passengers are now able to sit without their knees kissing the seat in front of them, which is important in the event that you feel sick and have to put your head between your knees. Previously, passengers feeling faint were required to just go ahead and faint, finding some comfort in the fact that they were so jammed in that there was nowhere for them to fall.

Softer seats, check. The airline has engineered special seats that, while not likely to be mistaken for a Barcalounger, nevertheless are noticeably softer than previously. I say this based on the fact that we disembarked from a multi-hour plane ride still able to retain some feeling in our respective derrieres. 

Skinnier armrests, check. Let's just say that the American public's arms, in general, are not getting any skinnier; why should armrests? When the airline was conducting focus groups to see what passengers wanted in their airplane experience, did they really get yes answers to the question "I would be comfortable with a stranger's forearm flesh hanging in my personal space during the flight"?

Less underseat storage, check. Airlines appear to be on a campaign to force passengers to travel without any luggage whatsoever. How else to explain the rising fees for checked bags, the new fees some are charging for carryon bags, and now smaller spaces in which to store those carryon bags? Soon passengers will be required to have their belongings surgically sewn somewhere inside their person, which will of course wreak havoc with the security systems. 

Lower seats, check. Although the new seats are closer to the ground than the ones on the older planes, officials have insisted that passengers will not notice -- other than the fact that they can no longer store anything larger than a Kleenex box under the seat in front of them -- because the seats now better accommodate typical human proportions. Many passengers, of both typical and atypical proportions, are likely to disagree. As for me, I can only say: 

Finally, a seat where my feet can touch the floor.

Would you like an AARP membership with that hairdo?

On my recent visit to the hair salon, I complimented my stylist on her new hairdo. It hung sweetly around her face. I did not realize at first that it was rather radically shaved in the back, but it suited her.

"Oh, I had to do SOMETHING," she said, with her characteristic Irish accent. "One day I looked in the mirror, and" -- here she assumed a look of horror -- "I'd turned into me mother!"

I sympathized with her. Earlier that week, a receptionist at my mother's dentist's office had remarked how much I looked like my mother. 

My mother had just had two teeth extracted, and was not looking particularly her best. Plus, she is 87 years old. 

Seeing that I did not share her viewpoint, but evidently completely failing to understand why, the receptionist warmed to her subject.

"Look at some pictures of your mother at your age," she urged. "I'll bet she looked just like you."

I HAD looked at pictures of my mother at my age. She was very attractive, but she did not look anything like I do now. 

I shared this tale with my stylist. "My mother is 87," I said. "She's a wonderful person, and I love her, but I really don't want to look like her." 

"Oh, heavens, no," she said. "No one ever wants to look like their mum. I love me mother, too, God rest her soul, but I don't want to look like her. Forgive me, mum," she said contritely, looking heavenward. "I sure hope she's not hearing me from up there, saying how I don't want to be all jowly in the chin like her."

She was incensed that a young salesman had recently asked her whether she was an AARP member. "The impertinence!" she said. "What age do you become a senior citizen? 65? 60? 55?" 

"I think it varies," I said. "But some places might say 55."

She sighed. "I'm already one, then. But for goodness' sake you don't ask someone if they're an AARP member. Not even if they look 90."

In an attempt to distance herself from resembling her mother, and indignant at being taken for a senior citizen, she had undergone a radical haircut. "You could wear this look too," she said.

There is a tendency among people, which I would do well to ponder more often before I open my mouth, to believe that if you compliment them on something -- a hairdo, new shoes, a piece of art -- you would be pleased to have whatever it is for yourself. Certain family members, in fact, use this method to determine what to get other family members for birthdays, Christmas, etc.* ("You really liked my sleeveless vest jacket, so here you go!" "You really seemed to like the new kitten, so...")

So far the compliment trick has not worked with high-end vehicles, however.

And now my admiration of the stylist's haircut had put me in peril of having part of my head shaved. But she hastened to say that I wouldn't have to go THAT extreme. "And not now," she said reassuringly. "Just something to think about." I was profoundly grateful. 

But she was inspired now, and she cut my hair on a slight angle from back to front. I did not really notice until I got home and the Hero, who has become sensitive to my feeling caught between his opinion of my hair and the stylist's opinion, and my feeling that MY opinion does not count for much, said, "You look sort of New Yorkish." 

"Good," I said. "I don't think my mother ever looked New Yorkish."

In which the Princess cannot be trusted

Our home has been invaded. The insidious intruders have made attempts before, but were thwarted by our precautions. This time, however, they joined forces and overwhelmed us. What's worse, I let them into the house myself: three bags of M&Ms.

Three bags of cute, fall-themed M&Ms. Peanut. Plain. Even candy-corn flavored.

I am at a loss to explain how this happened. All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time. So did the Battle of Little Bighorn, and we see how well THAT turned out.

Perhaps I was overwhelmed by the cuteness of the M&Ms. The Hero would not have been overwhelmed by their cuteness. He is impervious to cuteness in something that will be consumed. "This wouldn't have happened if you were with me," I accused him. 

Repenting of my error in judgment, I took the excess candy to various social functions. As seriously as any group of wine tasters, we endeavored to tease out the exact flavors of the candy corn M&Ms. It elicited many flavor suggestions, although no one suggested candy corn.

Someone thought it reminiscent of cotton candy. The Hero and another male detected a distinct orange flavor. I tasted just plain white chocolate.

And one person pronounced it "just wrong."

Was she referring to my decision to buy it? It was hard to tell.

At any rate, none of the candy I bought is individually wrapped, which means I can't share it with our trick or treaters. 

What a shame.

Where is the Princess?

Due to pressing work duties, the Princess may be rather sporadic in her blog appearances for a week or two (confirming the Princess's belief that work in general interferes MUCH too much with one's life). In the meantime, take comfort in the fact that her work duties do not include interrupting your dinner hour with phone calls asking who you are going to vote for.