Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Zebra Bread

(Continued journal entry from a year ago- January 2010)
“We were led to a small sterile room with one chair and short exam table. After a time, the doctor’s PA entered the room. After quick introductions, she pulled up B’s images on her computer. She commented on how she had never seen anything like that before. She asked B a few insignificant questions, and said the doctor would be in shortly. Before too long, the orthopedic oncologist entered this cramped exam room. Introductions circled around. I was distracted by his inside out looking scrub top tucked unevenly into his black tight jeans. I missed the fact that he called me “Mommy” despite me clearly stating my name. He too looked at the images of B’s leg via CT scan and MRI. He said twice, with greater certainty the second time, “This is not a malignant tumor. --Somebody just kicked your butt.” (To be continued)
It was as simple as that. The oncologist specializing in pediatric orthopedic related cancers looked at some black and white images and in one sentence redirected our thoughts, physical course and emotions. All the radiology reports indicated the images were in line with cancer, but to the specialized surgeon, it was black and white. Just like this Zebra Bread-

Zebra Bread (Cake)

Make a bowl of Yummy in My Tummy Chocolate Cake (omitting chocolate chips) and a bowl of equally dense White Cake.

White Cake
1 white cake mix
1 box of white chocolate instant pudding
½ cup water
1/3 cup oil
4 eggs
1 cup sour cream

Mix all ingredients together in your Kitchenaid. Beat on high for two minutes.

Grease bread pans. (Or cake pans- 2 9x13 or 4 9 inch round.) Alternate filling them with large spoonfuls of each chocolate and white cake batter. Use a knife to run a few strokes through the batter. Don’t over-swirl. Bake at 325 degrees for 50-60 minutes (30+ minutes for cake pans). Cool. Finish with a chocolate glaze.

I first made this after an afternoon of being stranded at the grocery store. My daughter had a doctor’s appointment and we were making a quick stop at Albertsons before dropping her back off at school. I only needed a few items, but since I am often carried off track by their sales, I opted for a shopping cart. Unfortunately, in my haste of filling my cart with a few sale items right by the entrance, I put my keys in the cart, instead of my purse. (I know- Who does that?) We gathered the rest of our items, and after checking out, decided between the two of us we could carry our grocery sacks instead of taking the cart out to the parking lot. No sooner had we taken a few steps outside, had I remembered my keys were not sharing the same space as us, and we were in a pickle. We reentered the store and quickly went to where we had returned our shopping cart. There was no sign of my keys in any cart. I checked in with customer service and struck out. I knew those keys must be “shopping” in the store with another customer. J and I awkwardly began walking up and down every aisle trying to look into the carts without being too obvious. It wasn’t a very busy day, but we didn’t have any luck stalking the shoppers. We decided to wait it out. I knew the shopper who used “my” cart after me would eventually check out and probably notice the set of keys. J and I parked ourselves and our groceries on a bench near the exit and immediately below the Starbucks baked goods. After each cart was returned, we would quickly search it. From time to time, I revisited customer service. After an extended period of time starring at the Starbucks zebra loaf, er- I mean waiting for my keys to show up, we called a friend who lived nearby to come pick us up. Despite the fact she was tending her friends’ twins, and baking cupcakes, she rescued us. Just as we were driving away, and I was being cutely chastised by two five year old twin boys regarding my inefficiencies, the customer service attendant came running out of the store waving my set of keys. J never made it back to school, but I made it home in plenty of time to try my hand at some zebra bread.

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