Adventures in Caking: Marshmallow Fondant How-To

A lot of people have been asking for my fondant recipe/tips, so here's a whole photo blog how-to entry for you.  These pictures were taken when I was making fondant for the Minion Cake, but I always use the same recipe.  Not only does this recipe taste awesome (and it's easy to cut through, especially when the cake is room temperature), but it can be made into tons of flavors, and it can also be bland enough to blend in with the frosting underneath and not drastically affect the flavors of the cake, if you only want to use it for the awesome look you get with it.


Marshmallow Fondant Recipe:

16 oz bag of mini marshmallows
2 lb bag of confectioner's sugar (plus more for rolling out)
4 Tbsp water
1 tsp vanilla extract (or any other extract/liquid flavoring)
crisco (for your hands)
gel food coloring, if desired

First, dump the marshmallows in a big bowl and microwave them on high for 1-1.5 minutes (for my microwave, it's always 1.5 min).  The top marshmallows will probably still look whole, but underneath, they'll be melted.  








When the marshmallows are heated, add the 4 Tbsp water, and the extract/flavoring you're using (I've done vanilla, almond, root beer, and bacon before, all with great results - but some extracts/concentrates, like root beer, are so dark, they'll tint the fondant.  Keep that in mind when choosing your flavoring - if you want to make white or light fondant, you can't use a dark extract.  Also, Wilton has several clear extracts available for just this purpose, but I've never had an issue with regularly colored vanilla affecting the white color), If you're coloring the entire batch of fondant one color, it's easiest to add the food coloring at this point.  Otherwise, leave it white and you can add coloring to pieces later, as desired.











And now the fun part.  Reserve 1 cup of the sugar and set aside.  Then gradually start adding the rest of the confectioner's sugar, stirring until mostly combined after each addition.  The mixture will get stickier and stiffer with each addition.  Add in all the sugar (except the reserved 1 cup) while the mixture is in the bowl.

Getting goopy!

After all the sugar (except the reserved 1 cup) has been added and mixed in, prepare a place on a clean counter top by sprinkling it with some of the reserved sugar.  The next step is to dump the fondant out of the bowl and onto the prepared surface to continue to kneed it, but be warned: it is now a sticky, huge mess.  I usually dump it onto my sugar-coated surface and then prepare my hands.  I've found the thing that works best (for me, at least) is to coat my hands in crisco (between the fingers, too), and then dip my hands into my container of confectioner's sugar (not the reserved 1 cup, but my regular container of it).  The sugar then sticks to my hands and is the best way I've found for keeping the fondant from getting all over me.

I just dip my hands into my crisco jar...

 

Now, with coated hands, begin to kneed the reserved confectioner's sugar into the fondant ball, adding more as needed to combat the stickiness.  Also, make sure you regularly lift the fondant and put more sugar beneath it, or it will stick terribly on the surface you're using.  Usually, somewhere in the beginning of this process, I have a freak-out moment when I feel like I MUST have done something wrong this time - the fondant is TOO hard to manage, coating my hands, sticking to the counter, being too goopy, etc.  It's best to just try and work through the panic.  Chances are, you're doing it right.  :)

 Coated hands: don't panic, it's SUPPOSED to be a giant mess!

Becoming stiffer - turning into actual fondant!

I frequently have to add slightly more confectioner's sugar than just the 2 lbs called for in the recipe.  Continue to kneed and mix the fondant until it becomes smooth and easy to handle.  But keep in mind, if you continue to kneed past this smooth point, you'll have to add more sugar to get it smooth again.  It's kind of a continuous cycle, so when it first gets to the smooth stage, stop kneeding (but keep in mind you can always add a bit more sugar to get it smooth again if you need to).

Now flatten the ball slightly, sprinkle a bit of sugar below and on top of it, and wrap it tightly in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge.  It need to be refrigerated at least 8 hours, but I always just do it overnight.

Congrats, you've made fondant!  And for the clean up...  It works best to pour a tiny bit of warm to hot water over the sticky mess left on the counter and let it sit for a bit.  The water will help to dissolve the sugar left on the counter and will make it easier to wipe up.  I then usually have to wipe the counters down with soap and water at least twice to get them completely clean.










Super-messy counters

Now that your fondant has refrigerated overnight, it's almost ready to use.  If you need to color it, divide it into the sections to color and let them warm to room temperture, or at least an hour (covered, to keep dust, etc off of them).  Whenever you do anything with the fondant, have a good deal of confectioner's sugar on hand, and use it liberally.  The best way to keep it from sticking is to use tons of excess sugar.  If there's sugar on the fondant when you put it on a cake, don't worry, it can easily be smoothed away, or it will absorb into the fondant while the cake sits in the fridge.

To cover a cake with fondant, you first need to crumb-coat the cake with a layer of frosting.  Crumb-coating is just putting a layer of frosting over your cake and smoothing out any crumbs of imperfections on the cake.  You can frost the cake and then use the fondant over it immediately, but for the best results, you should crumb-coat the cake the night before and refrigerate it overnight (along with the fondant).  The fondant will stick well to the cool, hardend frosting, and the cake will stand up to the fondant better if it's chilled and slightly hardened (you're also less likely to accidentally smoosh the cake if it's chilled).

 Stacked cake before crumb-coating:

 

Crumb-coated cakes, waiting overnight for fondant:

To fondant a cake, let the fondant warm up slightly (though with marshmallow fondant, if it's at room temperature, it's much more likely to tear and stick), then roll it out on a heavily sugared surface.  It helps to flip the fondant several times during the rolling out process and throw extra sugar underneath.  Also, make sure you don't knick it with your fingernails, as that will leave infuriating marks in it.

Roll out a piece that it bigger than the cake you're trying to cover.  Using your sugar-coated rolling pin, you can wrap the fondant around itself (very, very loosely), and you can "roll" it back out onto the cake.  Begin in the center and smooth the fondant out toward the sides (make sure you don't pull it, as it will tear easily).  Fold gently over corners/curves.  Once the fondant is in place, you can rub it gently with your hands to get a smooth effect.  For the excess around the base of the cake, I use the backside of a butter knife blade (the rounded, not serrated side) to gently "cut" the excess at the edge of the cake.  However, even with professional tools, fondant has a tendency to look ragged at the edges, which is why fondant cakes usually have a border at their base (aside from giving the cake a more "completed" look).

Fondant-covered minions!

To stick fondant decorations on a fondant-covered cake, use a tiny, tiny bit of water.  I dip just the very tip of my finger in a shallow bowl of water and put a dab on the back of the piece I want to adhere, then stick it on.  It will basically glue it there. 

For molding fondant, treat it just like modeling clay, but use confectioner's sugar liberally to prevent sticking.  I've found the store-bought Wilton brand of fondant is best for things you need to harden very stiffly.  Marshmallow fondant WILL harden if left out overnight (or several days), but the Wilton stuff harderns faster and stiffer. 

Also, I leave all my cakes in the fridge, but be warned, marshmallow fondant will "sweat" when removed from the fridge, until it reaches room temperature.  It won't affect the cake in anyway, except it gives it a wet look until it's at room temperature.  I'm always nervous my cakes will melt if I leave them out (or the fondant will get dirty, or stiffer), so I don't mind the sweating look.  If you're opposed to the wet look (which, again, is only temporary - but if you take a cake out at the beginning of a party, expect it to look extra shiny at the party), either leave the cake out entirely, or remove it from the fridge several hours before it's needed.

I think that's it!  Please feel free to ask me any questions about this process, or let me know if I left anything out/didn't make something clear.  Good luck, and always keep in mind: fondant can make me more angry than anything (I call it the "fondant rages"), but the joy you then feel after it actually turns out is one of the best feelings in the world.  Just keep at it, and, when it doubt, add more sugar.  :D

My sugar-coated kitchen after fondanting the minions:

Adventures in Caking: The Legend of Zelda

I'm pretty much an awesome wife.  When Husband said he didn't care what kind of cake I made him for his birthday, I originally planned on just making his favorite coffee-chocolate cake.  Then I thought I could put a little fondant Triforce on it (he's loved every Zelda game his entire life).  But if I was going to be making fondant anyway, I might as well do something a little more elaborate.  Then it turned into a whole, big design.  And finally, I decided to try out new recipes.

Dark chocolate-bacon cake.  With maple-bacon frosting.  And bacon fondant.

The cake itself was basically the same recipe as the coffee-chocolate cake, but with bits of bacon mixed in.  It's really good, but next time I'll mince the bacon (instead of just chopping it into small pieces), because I didn't really like the noticeable pieces of bacon in the cake.  They just get too chewy and weird in a cake.

But the frosting.  A-mazing.  For this, I did mince the bacon, because I knew I'd be putting fondant over it, and I didn't want it to make my cake all bumpy (or tear the fondant) with bacon pieces.  Personally, I could do without the bacon and just eat the most delicious frosting I've ever tasted in my life, but the saltiness of the bacon added a great flavor.  And since Husband wanted bacon, it was perfect.

For the fondant, I ordered some liquid bacon flavoring and just about 5 drops of it, along side regular vanilla extract.  It had a vague hint of bacon, but it was a sweet taste (since it's all marshmallows and sugar, anyway).  It was great by itself, but I couldn't really taste it on the cake (I'm also not a big fondant person - I love it for decorating, since I can do so much more with it, but I don't care if it's on the cake or not.  Fortunately, the recipe I use tends to blend in pretty seamlessly with the frosting flavors, so it's really not very noticeable at all.)

Then I miraculously stumbled across a tiny square fondant cutter that I didn't even know I had.  That probably saved me about 10 hours of work.  All the decorations are fondant (since I'm pretty terrible at piping, but after this cake, I feel like I'm going to need to learn - I think the lettering at the top would have been much better piped, if I were more capable), except the bushes, which are just leftover maple-bacon frosting.

Husband loved his cake.  Then he decided the only thing that would make it cooler would be if I made him a Zelda cake for birthday every year, progressing chronologically through the sequence of Zelda games.  This is going to be interesting....

I think he likes it.  :)  Also, he's had this shirt for years, but we also got him a Triforce winter hat and a little metal Zelda mint tin for his birthday this year.  He's my favorite dork.

Adventures in Caking: Coral Reef Cupcake Cake

I don't have an anecdotal entry for you today (or the last couple weeks - sorry!), so I'm hoping if I offer up two cake entries, you'll forgive me.  :)  Husband came home two weeks ago, so we've been enjoying some family-togetherness time, and that's probably why I haven't had a chance to write anything.

When we found out about when Husband was supposed to be coming home, I thought it'd be a really nice idea to invite his family to come up and actually get to come to a redeployment ceremony.  Since it was such a short deployment, I knew I wouldn't feel like they were infringing on our family time (like I probably would after a longer deployment).  Plus, it turned out to be a gigantic blessing, as we had to wait in this giant gym/hangar on bleachers for over an hour, and the extra sets of hands with the kids helped me not lose my mind.

We decided kind of last minute to also celebrate Sweet D's birthday the same weekend (just hours after Husband got home), so I figured I wouldn't have the time to make the giant octopus cake I'd originally been planning to make for her.  Instead, I chose to make a cupcake cake.  Maybe with some little octopuses or something.

And then I went a bit overboard.  Pun totally intended.

All in all, the cake probably took me between 15-20 hours.  It's all homemade (like usual), half the cupcakes were strawberry, half were chocolate, and all the little critters were molded (by me!) out of homemade marshmallow fondant (both almond and vanilla flavored).  I had SO much fun with this cake.  I did some menial research on coral reef creatures (mostly pictures to get a few of the little guys more accurate - namely things like the top hat, bow ties, and hair bows on octopuses, right?), ignored the kids a bit, drank some wine and skyped with a good friend while molding, and all in all really enjoyed the whole process.  It was much more rewarding than other cakes, since I'd have a finished, adorable little critter in just 10-25 minutes (as opposed to the full 20+ hrs for a completed larger cake).

With my little 1-year old girl!

 

Left side of the cake

Right side

Coral reef views

 

 Back of the coral reef

The hermit crab and the squid were my favorite critters

More critters

 

Candle Octopus!

My sweet birthday girl

Enjoying the cake! (actually, I think they both only ate fondant)

And some homecoming photos, too:

Redeploying soldiers standing in formation at the ceremony

Ant's in the orange shirt, being held by his Auntie

When they released the soldiers, Ant turned to me and said,

"I get my Daddy back now?!" *sob*

Not the best photo, but we're all together again!!

Recipe: Chocolate Chip Pomegranate Cookies

I love pomegranates.  Every Fall/Winter, I get excited when the stores start carrying them again, but I mostly only eat them (the seeds) plain.  Fortunately, my kids love to just eat the seeds by the handful, too.  I happened to have a whole tupperware full of seeds in my fridge when I stumbled on this recipe in a Parents magazine, so I figured it was some kind of divine intervention.  It was.  These cookies are amazing.  They're like little delicious chocolate chip cookies with bursts of amazing.  I changed the recipe slightly (it originally called for dark chocolate chunks, which I don't happen to have on hand right now), and I can't imagine them being any better than they turned out.  But the internet is also full of recipes with white chocolate chips (which, as much as I prefer white to other chocolate, I think might be too much), so I'd imagine the flavor of chips is pretty interchangeable.  Regardless, I used semi-sweet, and seriously, these cookies are absolutely amazing.

Edit: Oh, in case you are intimidated by pomegranates, I thought I should include some tips on how to deal with them.  They're actually not that difficult, but the red juice does stain everything, so be careful.  :)

Cut the top off the pomegranate about 1/4 - 1/2 inch down.  Set this aside.  Looking at the insides of the pomegranate, locate the membranes separating the main parts of seeds, and take your knife and make superficial cuts down the sides, about 1/8 inch into the skin of the pomegranate (you don't have to go all the way down, but cut at least a little past the mid-point).  Basically, you're making vertical cuts in the skin of the pomegranate wherever there are membranes on the inside.

Next, get a large bowl of cold water.  Take the pomegranate and gently pull it apart at the places where you've made the cuts (it should come apart fairly easily - or at least break into manageable pieces - you don't need perfect wedges, you just need to be able to get at the seeds).  Take one piece at a time, put it in the cold water, and gently rub/knock all the seeds off the membranes/skin and into the bowl (this is all done underwater, or just above the surface - this helps prevent red juice from squirting everywhere, and it makes separating the membranes from the seeds easier).  Do the same for all the pieces until all your seeds are in the water.

If there are any extra little pieces of membrane stuck to the seeds, you can gently rub them away - they'll float, and the seeds will all skin.  Skim the surface of your water with a spoon or fine mesh strainer to remove any excess floating membranes.  Drain the seeds, put them in a plastic container, and keep them in the fridge.  They'll last at least a week in the fridge.

Here's the recipe!!

Chocolate Chip Pomegranate Cookies:

1/2 cup butter-flavored crisco & 1 Tbsp water (the original recipe called for unsalted butter, softened, but I pretty much always prefer crisco in cookies.  The dough isn't ever as good by itself, but it seems to always make for better baked cookies - then again, I have had issues with cronically flat butter cookies, so I prefer the moistness/puffiness I get with crisco.)

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup packed dark brown sugar

1 egg

1 tsp vanilla

1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/4 tsp salt

3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1/2 cup pomegranate seeds, patted dry

Preheat oven to 350.  Line cookie sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl.

In a separate bowl, cream crisco, water, and sugars until light and fluffy.  Add egg and vanilla, mixing to combine after each addition.

Mix in the flour mixture until just combined.  Fold in chocolate chips, then very gently fold in seeds (I used a spatula and still smashed a few of them).

Drop dough by rounded teaspoons onto parchment-lined cookie sheets, 2 inches apart (I think I actually used a 1 1/2 tsp - they came out perfectly cute and small).

Bake 8-10 minutes or until just slightly light brown (the centers might not appear completely set).  Cool on cookie sheets 2 minutes, then remove to cooling racks.  Serve warm.

Store leftovers in the fridge for up to three days.  

Makes about 3 dozen 1 1/2 tsp sized cookies.

The Day I Got a Black Eye

Whoa, it's Monday, and I totally didn't have a blog prepared.  So here's a short story from my youth.  Hopefully Sweet D will stay asleep long enough for me to get it typed out.

I've always been a considerate person.  I was the middle child, with brothers on either side, and I think that, combined with my anxiety disorder, has made me very sensitive to other people.  It also made me terrified of conflict.  Mostly because "conflict" with my older brother usually meant fist fights - which weren't so bad in and of themselves (I knew how to stick up for myself, at least), but my parents' solution to our fighting was to lock us together in the tiny half bath in the hallway until we could hug for twenty seconds (the arbitrary time limit necessary to reflect forgiveness, love, and a willingness to get along in the future).  It was awful.  We'd sit there and stew for upwards of 30 minutes, filling the bathroom with an excessive air of loathing until we could finally agree to endure the "hug of freedom" without biting or pulling each other's hair.

So I (nervously) started Kindergarten.  My teacher was Mrs. Sturm.  I'll remember her name forever (and not because, when we moved back to South Dakota, I ended up going to high school with her daughter), but because of this incident.  There is no warmth in my heart for this woman.

I was in afternoon Kindergarten, so we got to school right when the older kids were finishing lunch.  Everyone was out at recess when we'd get dropped off, and if we got there early, we could run around the school yard for a bit, too, until the bell rang.

One of my first days of Kindergarten (or maybe it was in the middle or the end; I honestly can't remember, but it feels to me like my entire year of Mrs. Sturm was tainted by this moment, so my impression is that it happened early in the year), I got to school early and was playing in the school yard for a few minutes when the bell rang.  I knew we weren't supposed to run, so I was walking quickly to get in line (the rest of my class seemed like they were already lined up, and I was terrified I would get in trouble if I didn't get there soon).  I remember seeing them all lined up against the brick wall, waiting to walk inside in single file, with Mrs. Sturm at the head of the line.

All my little Kindergarten daily hopes were swirling around in my head.  It was going to be such a good day. We were going to make macaroni necklaces or paper bag shoes or some other kind of magic Kindergarten craft.  And mine was going to be perfect.  Just the right shapes.  In all the right colors.

Life was an amazing box of crafts, waiting for me to get in that line.

Then out of no where - everything went black.

I opened my eyes again to find myself on the ground, next to a big kid.  A 5th grader.  She was easily twice my size.  And she was bawling hysterically, holding her knee.

My whole body ached slightly, the wind had been knocked out of me, but after a quick self-check, I seemed mostly fine.  Except my head.  It really hurt.

But this big, huge, athletic, strong, brave 5th grader next to me was sobbing.  The tiny scratch on her knee was starting to bead little red drops of blood.  Since I seemed to be okay, and she was clearly not, I did the only thing I could think of to help.

"Are you okay?"  I asked her meekly.

She looked right in my face - and let loose another wail of wildly over-exaggerated pain.  Then a teacher swooped in to help her stand up.  Odd that no one was helping me up, seeing as how I was only the size of this girl's leg, but I was tough.  I stood up, rubbed my head where it ached, and walked over to my Kindergarten line.

Oh yeah!  Crafts were waiting for me in that line!  It was going to be a good day, in spite of this little set back.  So a gigantic person tried to run me over.  I can get over that!  I was clearly more polite (and tougher) than her.  I could just shake it off and get on with my life. And back to my fantasies of Kindergarten crafts.

I got in the back of the line and waited for us to start walking in.

Then a shadow crossed my face.

I looked up to see a scowling Mrs. Sturm standing in front of me with her arms on her hips.

"Are you hurt?" she asked in a voice that clearly implied she was only asking out of a sense of obligation as my teacher.

"My head -" I started.

"You know the rules.  You're not supposed to run in the school yard.

That's what happens when you run."

Those words have haunted me my entire life.  "That's what happens when you run."

But I wasn't running!  I was walking quickly!  The monstrous, Nordic beast of a 5th grader had been running!  I was just trying to get in line when she came out of nowhere and knocked me out flat!  Why didn't Mrs. Sturm see the truth?!  I would NEVER do something that was against the rules!!

I tried to protest, but she just ignored me and walked to the front of the line to lead us inside for the day.

The daily crafts were tainted by my shame.  I couldn't believe I'd let Mrs. Sturm down like that.  She must have been so disappointed in me.  Even though I didn't run, she thought I had.  My life was essentially over; a teacher was disappointed in me.  I would never be able to outlive this shame.

As the day wore on, my head began to hurt more and more.  I could feel a lump rising right above my eyebrow (hidden conveniently under my stylish bangs), but I didn't dare bring it to Mrs. Sturm's attention - it was my punishment - my cross to bear.

"That's what happens when you run."

After an hour or two, we had a routine bathroom break.  I got a drink of water from the water fountain, wiped my mouth, and with the excess water, I wiped my forehead, which was throbbing by this point.  I must have moved my bangs out of the way right as I walked back into the classroom, because Mrs. Sturm's face contorted as she watched me.

"Oh no..." the breath escaped her.  "Let me see your head."

I lifted up my bangs, showing that the tiny scratch on my cheek was not the only injury I'd sustained in our head-on collision.

"Go straight to the nurse's office.  Now."

I ran down the hall to the nurse, where she examined me quickly, handed me an ice pack and said, "well, that's going to be a black eye.  You should have come in right away so I could have gotten ice on it sooner."

More disappointment.  More shame.  How could I be letting so many people down today?  All the macaroni necklaces in the world couldn't get the foul taste of shame and self-loathing out of the back of my throat.

My eye did turn black, but it wasn't too bad.  It healed, as did the Amazon 5th grader's knee, I assume.  But the sense of failure at letting my teacher down never did.

In high school, Mrs. Sturm would often come to sporting events, because her daughter was a cheerleader.  I remember watching all my other friends from Kindergarten (who'd gone to the same schools with each other since then - where as I moved away for seven years - to Maryland) rush up to her to say hi.  They had such fond memories of her.

But not me.  "That's what happens when you run."  You disappoint your teachers.  You bring down a great 5th grade Viking of a girl.  You get an emotional black eye on your soul that you must bear for all time.

THAT is what happens when you run.

Hilmar Stimmler

I once knew a man named Hilmar Stimmler.  Okay, that wasn't his exact name, but it's only one letter off.  I'm just trying to avoid him running across this when he does a google-search for his name, as he is the type of person who likely does a google-search for his name on a bi-weekly basis.  In the event you do stumble upon this, Hilmar, like usual with unbeknownst subjects of my blog, I mean no harm or ill-will, it's just that, in knowing you, I obtained a somewhat interesting and/or humorous anecdote I feel my audience would enjoy reading.  And also, you were kind of a jerk to me, so I don't really feel too bad if this is unwittingly insulting to you.

What kind of a bizarre name is Hilmar Stimmler, you ask?  It's German.  Still kind of on the bizarre side?  Yeah, I know.  But I also met a guy named Torge (pronounced: Tore-guh), so who knows.  Germans, amiright?

Hilmar Stimmler was my boss.  I don't have a very good history with bosses.  There was the pathological liar (if you haven't read this one, I highly suggest it; it's one of my personal favorites), the tax-evader (who spent time in prison for tax-fraud shortly after I quit working there), another boss who used to have hysterical fits of womanly insanity, and would sob in her office on bad days, but would forget to wipe off the triangles of mascara from under her eyes, so they served as a form of yield-signs to steer clear of her on her "crying-rage-filled-rampage" days, and one who killed himself while I was working for him (it was a very small business with only 3 employees at the time, so that was... interesting).

But Hilmar was my boss during my Fulbright year to German.  I worked as an English language teaching assistant at a high school in a small-ish town in central Germany, or at least that's what I was supposed to be doing.  In reality, I worked as Hilmar's little American bitch.  We weren't supposed to teach the classes ourselves (I spent more than a few nights staying up late while trying to frantically put together a lesson plan for the next day after Hilmar's short notice that I was in charge of the lessons for the next day), we weren't supposed to grade papers (I was handed every paper as soon as the students turned them in, so I could "make the language corrections" for Hilmar - he would then ask what grade I felt the papers each deserved), and we weren't supposed to be translation services (Hilmar frequently called me out in front of a classroom full of students to argue with me over the meaning of a word - usually one that differed between American and British English definitions - I'm sorry, but I'm not going to hire a "solicitor" to represent me in court, and just because you had a routine doctor appointment does not mean you went "to hospital" or had "surgery."  Learn the language, Brits.)

Aside from abusing me in a professional setting, Hilmar seemed determined to make my year a memorable one in many other ways, as well.  For starters, as a participating teacher in the program, it was his responsibility to find me a place to live in town.  Instead of doing that, he offered to let me stay at his apartment until I could find a place to live.  He'd only charge me 250€ a month (out of the 703€ we earned). That didn't seem like a bad deal, considering he would also be feeding me.  Until he went out of town for two weeks and left me alone with his teenage daughter - and no food.  I had no choice but to buy food, for myself and the daughter.  Then, when I spent a week away from the house (with Tante Rose - my German grandmother-of-sorts), he didn't see it fit to lower my payment for the month at all.  I was also confined to three rooms of the house: my bedroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom.  According to Hilmar, he preferred if I stayed out of the other rooms.  Including the living room, with the TV.

Okay, so I was over-paying for meager quarters in a semi-hostile environment.  It was only for a couple months, right?  Not a big deal.

Until he started walking around the house in his short.  Biking shorts.  Sometimes hot pink, sometimes teal.  Skin-tight.  Biking shorts.  He did love to bike.  But that doesn't excuse subjecting my eyes (or those of his innocent daughter) to such a sight for hours every weekend day.  Germans are not necessarily known for their sense of fashion, and Hilmar was more than eager to scald that stereotype forever into my retinas.

And the Stimmlers were musical.  Oh, so very musical.

Hilmar played the piano.  And keyboard.  Regularly.  He was actually quite talented, but any time you're imprisoned in a small room in a quaint, thin-walled apartment, with no source of noise-creating entertainment (since I wasn't allowed in the TV room), the sounds of another human practicing an instrument ad nauseum can quickly begin to grate your nerves.  And his daughter played the clarinet.

Ah, the clarinet.  I will always hate the sound of the clarinet.  Not that his daughter wasn't equally as talented as Hilmar the Great, but my older brother played clarinet when we were younger, and the tell-tale squeaking honk sounds of a poorly played clarinet are forever engraved in my mind - in the back of my mind, scratching at my brain like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Any time I hear a clarinet, it's like a group of fashionable black women with those mesmerizingly long, blindingly colorful fingernails have gathered to relieve the itches of dozens of chalkboards located at the base of my skull.  His daughter could play the clarinet for two hours at a time. Or more.  Sometimes more.

He briefly showed me around town my first week there.  But the first day of school, he got up and went in early, so I had to walk there by myself.  When I went to apply for my visa, he set out with me in the morning, walked me to the building, and as soon as we were inside (and to the tricky part of actually dealing with people), he had a "meeting," and he had to run off.  I learned quickly that he was not the type of person to rely on for help.  Or kind words.  Or compassion of any sort.

So the time came (sooner than anticipated) for me to find a place to live.  Well, technically, the time came for Hilmar to do his job and find me a place to live.  But that wasn't going to happen.

"Do you think you could possibly help me find an apartment or something where I could live in town?"  I asked, after drawing up all the courage I could muster.

"No.  You'll have to do it on your own.  What do I know about finding apartments around here?"  Oh, gee, Hilmar, I don't know.  For starters, you live in an apartment around here.  I'd say that's about as knowledgeable as anyone could ever hope to be!

After interviewing with a dozen renters looking for another roommate in town (and being rejected by all of them, most likely because I would have been leaving in July, and their school-year went through September, so they would have been out a paying roommate for two months, but also quite possibly just because I was an American), I began to get panicky and felt like I'd never find a place to live.  But the mother of a student at our school happened to run a dorm (not affiliated with the university in town, although most everyone who lived there was a student at the university), and she had an available room.  At the very least, Hilmar was kind enough to drive my belongs and me up to the dorm, so I didn't have to make multiple trips on the town's buses.  That was probably the only generous thing he did for me - and he didn't even charge me fare for it!

Once I escaped the clutches of living with Hilmar, things seemed to get slightly better.  I only had to see him at work.  On a daily basis.  Unless he didn't show up for class that day, which, granted, didn't happen very often, but for an unprepared 22 year old with no actual teaching experience, once would have been more than enough.

Other times, he would show up, but his lesson plans wouldn't.

"How about you read from our book today?" he'd ask me, in front of the entire class of 17-18 year olds who also, clearly, had no desire to actually do anything productive that day.

"You mean like this paragraph?"

"Sure, start with that.  And then keep reading.  Until I tell you to stop.  They like to hear a real American accent"

Fifty minutes later, the bell would ring, and my "real American accent" would be starting to crack.

It should be noted that Hilmar was married to an American woman.  However, I never met her.  She was living in Florida, teaching there for the year (or longer).  She'd decided she'd had enough of living in Germany (or with Hilmar?), as she'd been there nearly 20 years, so she found a job "back home," and moved away.  He went to visit her several times (including the two weeks he left me to fend for myself - and take care of his hungry daughter), and she came to visit him, too, over her holidays.  Most notably, over Thanksgiving break.

For whatever reason, we had a long weekend over Thanksgiving.  Surely not because of Thanksgiving, as that's an American holiday, but regardless, I spent the day with a couple good friends in the small town of Stendal.  We did our best to make a Germanized version of American Thanksgiving, and, all in all, it was a pleasant holiday.

Back at school on Monday, Hilmar approached me in the teachers' lounge.

"Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?" he asked, and without waiting for a reply, "We had a very traditional one - with the big turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and everything.  Since my wife is American, she went all out and made me a real classic dinner.  I didn't even think of inviting you."

"Uh... yeah.  I went over to a friend's..."

"Oh, good.  Because I realize now I probably should have invited you.  Oh well!"  In spite of that realization, Hilmar didn't see fit to invite me for any of their Christmas celebrations, either.

Some mornings in the teachers' lounge, he would refuse to acknowledge my existence.  I'd say hi or wave, and he'd turn his back as if I weren't there at all.  Other mornings, he'd sit down next to me, full of friendly chit-chat and go over our lesson plans for the day.  I never knew which Hilmar I was going to encounter on any given day.

And then there was Spring Break.  I knew that I needed/wanted to come home for a few days, because Husband would be graduating from Creighton and was going to be Commissioned in the Army (and our good friends were also getting married that weekend - and, as it turned out, so were Husband and I).  I asked Hilmar if I could have Thurs-Tuesday off, over two months in advance.

"No.  I don't see how that could work."  Ahh, he was such a compassionate man.

I went back to the drawing board.  I came up with a plan where I could have as little work on those days as possible - finishing what I could before I left, preparing lesson plans for the days I was gone, etc.  A week later, I approached him again and asked a second time, giving him my proposal of how, in spite of being physically gone, I wouldn't actually miss any work.  Besides, he'd had me work far more than I was ever supposed to in the first place - I was frequently used as a "guest speaker" in random English classes (read: a free period for the students to accuse me of every American stereotype known to Germans while I tried to negate and/or acknowledge them; yes, many Americans are fat, but so are many Germans; no, not all Americans are rich, and I don't even own a gun, etc), and I wasn't technically ever supposed to teach a class on my own, much less alone in the classroom.

"I'll think about it, but you're really not supposed to be able to take any days off," he said.

So I booked my flights anyway.  I figured, I'd just call in (very) sick those days.  He'd obviously know I was lying, but we were allowed to take sick days.

Two weeks before my scheduled Spring break, Hilmar approached me.

"Do you still want those days off?  You can have them.  I don't see why it'd be a problem.  But it's probably too late to get plane tickets now.  Or they'd be really expensive, at best."  I honestly don't know if he was trying to be malicious, or if he was truly just that oblivious.

He maintained his "aloof yet unpredictably cruel" demeanor for the rest of my year there.  He wrote me a letter of recommendation but refused to let me read it.  He asked if I needed help getting my belongings to the train station then told me he already had plans to ride his bike for 12 miles the day I needed to leave town.  He made sure I was thanked in the end-of-the-year staff meeting but had a colleague (another teacher I'd worked with throughout the year) give my thank-you speech.

I'd like to end with some kind of moral or witty quip about Hilmar, but the man honestly baffled me.  I don't feel like my life is richer for having known him, yet I also don't feel as if he's caused any permanent damage to my psyche.  I generally feel indifferently amused when I think back on that year and the bizarre behavior of a man who can't recall having ever had the hiccups in his life.  So I'll end with this:

I once knew a man named Hilmar Stimmler (or something close enough to that).

(By the way, sorry for the terrible quality of the picture - I lost the actual copy of it, so all I had to go off of was the little thumbnail version.  That's me, before kids (*sigh*), in Hilmar's room with a bottle of champagne on one of the days both he and his daughter were out of town.  It was the only time I had friends over at his apartment - so, of course, we snuck into the "forbidden" rooms and snapped some super-fast pictures.)

The Day(s) I Built a Play Set; or, What Being an Army Wife Means to Me

As I've mentioned before, Husband is currently deployed.  But, in the grand scheme of deployments, this one is pretty minimal; in fact, it's not technically even going to be considered a deployment.  It won't reset his deployment clock, which means we run the (very slight) risk of Army turning around as soon as he gets home, sending him to another unit that needs a PA and deploying him for a full year-long deployment.  I seriously doubt that will happen, but it could.  The smartest approach to surviving Army life is to always at least be aware of what could happen.  We're expecting him to miss Sweet D's first birthday (but not by so much that we won't just postpone her party until he gets home) and another anniversary of ours, but if that's all he misses, we still have very little to complain about.

This is our first deployment with kids, so it's taken a bit more adjusting for me than the last one.  The first week was hard on me.  The second week was much easier.  By the third week, I began to realize that I could do this for a year, if I had to (which, thankfully, I don't - at least not this time).

Before he left, we bought a giant play set for the backyard, with the intention that we could get it built relatively quickly, and we'd have a fun and safe place where Ant could burn a lot of energy every day, without me being obligated to take both kids to the park (which is something I don't like doing alone, since I have to hold Sweet D the entire time, so if Ant gets stuck somewhere or slips, I can't just run up and help him with my arms full of baby).

We picked out an awesome one.  A slide, monkey bars, a rock wall, a rope ladder, climbing steps, swings, a tunnel, etc.  There were two different building kits to choose from: do-it-yourself, or ready-to-assemble.  We're not really that big on DitY type stuff, so we spent the money to get the ready-to-assemble kit.  Husband borrowed a friend's pick-up truck, loaded up all the pieces and brought it home.  We unloaded it all and moved all the pieces to the backyard, and Husband got working on it right away.  We figured we could get most of it built over the weekend, and maybe finish up the rest in the evenings after he got home.

How foolish we were.  Destroyed by our own hubris.

Ready-to-assemble simply means that most of the wood has already been cut to size.  Most.  Not all.  None of the wood had pre-drilled holes, but all of the wood required them.  Add to that more than several pieces of fairly warped wood, and we were looking at a lot more than two days' worth of play set building.  Combined with two small, usually screaming and impatient, children, I soon realized the likelihood of the play set ever being finished was dwindling.

Husband worked on it for several hours the first day.  Until all his drill bits were broken.  After a run to the hardware store, he got in a few more hours on Sunday, with meager results.  I'll admit at that point, knowing he was so close to deploying, I was feeling overcome with frustration and anger.  So much for our plan to have the play set finished.  Ever.

After coming home from work, Husband would go out and work on the play set for a couple hours each day.  It was coming along, slowly.  I helped when I had the chance, but for the most part, I just kept the kids from screaming at him so he could work.

Then he went to Ft. Sam Houston for training for a week, and I went to South Dakota for a "vacation."  We got home that weekend, and I decided we had to do as much as we could before he left.  We worked for about four hours on Sunday, again until all our drill bits broke and we had to stop.  On Monday, we found out he would for sure be deploying that weekend (Labor Day weekend), so he was determined not to spend his last days with us out in the blistering heat, working on the damned play set.  I resigned myself to not having the play set while he was gone.

Thursday morning he got a call that he'd be leaving that night at 1:30am.  I was a little frustrated that they'd taken away our last night together, but at least we finally had a time.  Four hours later, they called and moved it back 24 hours.

"That's it," I told him.  "We HAVE to do as much as we can to the play set."

So his last day here, we finished up everything we could.  The main structures were up, and the braces for the swing set.  It was a wooden frame, but at least I could hang the swings by myself.  It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

The morning after Husband left, both kids took a nap at the same time.  Determined to at least get the swings hung, I went out to work on the play set.  In less than two hours, I got the swings hung, the slide securely attached, the rope ladder up, and the rock wall parts in place.  Over the next couple of days, working on the few occasions the kids both napped at the same time, I managed to build the climbing stairs - which involved cutting the 2x8 boards with a manual saw.  I was so proud of myself, I became determined to do as much else as I could.

I've since attached the telescope (it doesn't actually work, but don't tell Ant that), and the tarp over the top, as well.  And I built the monkey bars (which also involved the manual saw, a lot of gigantic bolts, and a good amount of swearing).  The monkey bars are not yet attached, however, because they require two 10.5" holes to be dug where the legs will be secured in the ground, allowing the top to be level.  I struggled for an hour or so one afternoon with a post-hole digger, a shovel, and a pickaxe, and only made it about 6" in the rock-hard soil.

I had more than a few friends comment on how I should either wait or find a "man" who could dig the holes for me.  Surprisingly, I balked at the idea.  At first I didn't know how to explain it, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, I have to do this myself.  As an Army wife and a mother to our little Army brats, I have to finish this play set, and without help.

"Why?" a friend asked.

"Because.  What if Patrick were killed?  I have to know I can build my kids a play set."

I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's the truth.  I have to prove to myself that I'm good enough, and capable enough, to be both their mother and their father.  I have to be able to bake them awesome Minion cakes, but I also have to be able to build them big play sets.  I have to be twice as patient with them while he's gone, and twice as loving, because I'm both parents right now.  When one of us would get fed up with them, the other takes over.  They deserve the patience and love of two parents.  Whether it's for a day, two months, or 12 months, it doesn't matter.  When one parent is away, the one who stays behind has to be good enough to be both.

The play set is just a microcosm of the reality - just the physical embodiment of my role as "dad," but if I can do it, by myself, then I'll feel confident that I can do anything else.  I can handle a two month, or a nine month, or a fifteen month deployment.  I can be strong enough, loving enough, patient enough to be what my kids deserve - and what civilian kids with both parents at home can take for granted.  If I can do this, I can truly be an Army wife.