dvi silkes

For the first time ever, our apartment smells like chocolate cake. Not the waftings of some store-bought, icing-covered slab of chewy Styrofoam, but fresh, warm, yummy chocolate cake. There are, of course, two rather significant factors that have contributed to the lack of chocolaty-smelly goodness in our place up until now. First, it’s really difficult to create the smell of chocolate cake without an oven in which to bake the cake. Second – and certainly no less important – is the fact that my cake baking skills extend as far as a box of cake mix and a whisk.

So, you may be wondering, is this just some wishfully aromatic hallucination? As I lick sticky remnants of chocolate from my fingers, I can assure you that it is not! Thanks to an email from a friend in Canada, and the wonders of technology, I have discovered how to make a small sized cake in the microwave. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical at first, but the allure of making my very own warm cake sent me to the store for a few ingredients. The recipe is fantastically simple, so even I was able to mix up the delectable batter in a cereal bowl, pop it in the nuke box, and wait – impatiently – for the microwave to beep. Who would have thought that a bowl of brown sloppiness could be turned into steamy moist chocolate cake in only five minutes! It is (or rather, was) absolutely scrumptious, and I already have dreams of cake with chocolate sauce and ice cream. Mmmmm…

Thanks, A., for making my day perfectly, chocolately giddy!

We woke up this morning to grey skies and rain, so I was thankful that my plans for the day would keep me mostly indoors. I certainly wasn’t expecting anything exciting to happen: no nail-biting visits to the migration office, no travel adventures, or marshmallows in my mailbox. However, I did think it was time to make a trip to the grocery store, so I grabbed a pen and paper and sauntered into the kitchen for a look. After writing down a few essentials – water, TP, cookies (yes, cookies count as “essential”) – I opened the small freezer on the bottom of the fridge to see what was there. We recently went to one of the larger grocery stores where we picked up frozen veggies for stir-fry, red peppers for freezing, French fries for lazy days, and some ice cream for, well…whenever. With only two drawers in our freezer, I knew it was already pretty full, but thought I’d take a peek anyway.

As soon as I opened the freezer door, I knew there was something wrong. The top part of the freezer was dripping with icy water, and glaciers of ice were pushing the door open. While not enough to thaw the food, the crack in the door was enough to create a frosty mess in the freezer, making it impossible to close the door completely. I gave a little groan as the echo of my own voice from a few days ago rang in my head, “I should defrost the freezer soon.” Our little freezer door has a tendency to stay ever so slightly ajar, making ice build-up a regular (though usually not so dramatic) occurrence. We always catch it in time because the floor around the fridge gets alarmingly cold. However, we have both been padding around our apartment the last few days wearing extra thick wooly socks to keep our feet warm, so we must have missed the telltale frost on the floor.

With a freezer full of still-frozen food, this was hardly the time to sit down and defrost. After a completely useless attempt at chipping the ice from the door with a wooden spatula, I decided to go with the Emergency Defrosting Plan – whatever that is. I suppose in any emergency situation, we tend to gravitate towards what we are familiar with. And, after realizing that the ABC’s of emergency first aid (Airway, Breathing, Circulation) weren’t going to be much help, I ran for the next best tools of comfort: hammer and screwdriver. I admit, this was not the tidiest method of de-icing, and I could have used my safety goggles. There were ice chips zinging past my ears and flying all around the kitchen, my feet were getting cold in icy puddles, and the sharp frost on my hands reminded me of nasty winter mornings in Canada scraping car windows. And, while I have to confess I wasn’t overly concerned for the broccoli, I frequently checked on the poor ice-cream bar that was encased in ice on the bottom of the freezer drawer. Just call it ‘triage.’

I am happy to report that the freezer has been safely, if not quite thoroughly, de-iced, and both broccoli and ice-cream are fine. But even though the rain has stopped for now, I think I will make the trip to the grocery store a little later. My hands and feet are freezing, so I am going to make a nice, very hot cup of tea.

As an early morning draft skimmed my shoulders, I reached down to pull the extra blanket back up around my chin. Through the haze of semi-consciousness, I tried to reconcile the knobbly feel of the blanket my fingers had found with my recollection of where we were. I had anticipated feeling the cold slipperiness of the covers in our hotel at Trakai. Clearly, we weren’t there. We weren’t at Rob and Tracy’s either; I didn’t feel the intricate stitching of their heirloom quilt. This blanket felt soft, but not as soft as the one that Brenda made for Mom and Dad’s bed, so we couldn’t be in Ladysmith. I gave the blanket another tug, and knew right away that we weren’t at Krista’s place. This blanket was distinctly missing the glorious, crushing weight of the sleeping bag that covered the bed in her basement. There was no puffy duvet like the one in the motor home at Darwell, and no scratchy, wooly feel of the blankets in our tower room in Ireland. My fingers laced through the holes in the blanket’s crocheted design, and I knew I wouldn’t be waking up to the smell of coffee and the luxurious comfort of our bed in Texas.

As the wistful fog of sleep and remembrance began to clear, I realized – in a simultaneous sigh of sadness and relief – that I was at home.