My mother had an uneasy relationship with telephones. When the phone rang, she often had a look of fear or trepidation on her face as if the Gestapo had come suddenly, knocking on the door, in the middle of the night. She had a great reluctance to answer the phone, and it was only after five or six rings that she ventured a rather tepid “hello.” Then her conversation invariably included three other words as well: yes, no, and bye. Always in that order: “hello,” “yes,” “no,” and “bye.” Four words. One minute tops. And then the telephone receiver was back on its cradle.
One day she was mixing the powdered egg whites from an angel food cake mix. She had just emptied the contents of the packet - marked with a big “Package A” - into the mixing bowl and started to mix. Then the telephone rang. Very slowly she made her way to the telephone and she stopped the ringing after five rings. Her conversation began true to her usual, tentative form. But it suddenly it veered off into an extended - and most convivial - conversation. She told me to “watch the mixer” as she waved her hand in the general direction of the machine. I suppose that I was about eight years old at the time. I had no idea what it meant to “watch the mixer.”
She continued to talk on the telephone, even going to the effort to pass the telephone through the arched opening between the kitchen and the dining room. She sat on the chair in the dining room while she continued her conversation. I could not hear what she was saying. I noticed, however, that she laughed out loud at several times during her conversation. Perhaps it was not the Gestapo on the telephone after all. But I couldn’t imagine who it might have been.
The egg whites worked themselves into a thick froth after ten minutes. I looked toward my mother for advice about the egg whites. She was hidden from view in the dining room. So I continued to “watch the mixer.” After fifteen minutes, the egg whites began climbing out of the mixing bowl. I used a spatula to fold them back into the bowl. At twenty minutes, when it was impossible to keep the egg whites in the bowl, I turned off the mixer. She stuck her head around the corner and asked me why I turned off the machine. “I can’t keep the stuff in the bowl,” I said. She ended her telephone conversation and came into the kitchen. When she saw the stiffened egg whites, she had a very surprised look on her face. She asked me what I had done.
I didn’t know how to answer her. I was told to “watch the mixer,” and that was just what I did: I watched the mixer. I hadn’t done anything. “How did you get those egg whites that big?” she asked. “I don’t know.” I told her. “I just watched them. I didn’t do anything.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was getting pulled into the clutches of something I now call “competency.” It was always possible to hide completely in ignorance and never have a single person in the entire world suspect that you might be able to stand next to a food mixer, and to transform the contents of “Package A” into towering mounds of egg whites. But somehow I did just that. And since I had that strange - and now un-hidden - talent, I was given the task of making an angel food cake every Saturday for the next four years. “Billy,” my mother explained to anyone who would listen, “makes the best angel food cake in North America!”
I found that it was impossible to escape from that cake-making responsibility. My brothers, when asked to mix up an angel food cake, invariably botched the job. I was stuck with that Saturday routine until Grandma Tyndall asked me to “take care of her garden.” She was going away to visit with her sister for a couple of months and she wanted me to keep her garden weeded and watered. I agreed and began well enough. But the allurements of Summer dulled the bright promises I had made to Grandma Tyndall. Weeks went by without me even thinking about the garden. When Grandma Tyndall returned, her garden was a hopeless, tangled mass of weeds. “I will never let you take care of my garden again,” she said.
That very next Saturday I took the contents of “Package B” from the angel food cake mix and dumped it into the mixer. “Package B” was flour and it did not mix with water to produce those stiff peaks of egg whites. It only made a sad little puddle of paste in the bottom of the mixing bowl. “I don’t know what happened,” I told my mother when she saw the abject mixture in the bowl. She pushed me out of the way and called my younger brother. “John,” she said smiling broadly, “I’m going to show you how to make an angel food cake.”
Once again I was hidden from view in the cave of “Creative Incompetency.” John, however, was caught out in the open. He began his stint as an angel food cake baker, not knowing exactly what had happened to him.
One day she was mixing the powdered egg whites from an angel food cake mix. She had just emptied the contents of the packet - marked with a big “Package A” - into the mixing bowl and started to mix. Then the telephone rang. Very slowly she made her way to the telephone and she stopped the ringing after five rings. Her conversation began true to her usual, tentative form. But it suddenly it veered off into an extended - and most convivial - conversation. She told me to “watch the mixer” as she waved her hand in the general direction of the machine. I suppose that I was about eight years old at the time. I had no idea what it meant to “watch the mixer.”
She continued to talk on the telephone, even going to the effort to pass the telephone through the arched opening between the kitchen and the dining room. She sat on the chair in the dining room while she continued her conversation. I could not hear what she was saying. I noticed, however, that she laughed out loud at several times during her conversation. Perhaps it was not the Gestapo on the telephone after all. But I couldn’t imagine who it might have been.
The egg whites worked themselves into a thick froth after ten minutes. I looked toward my mother for advice about the egg whites. She was hidden from view in the dining room. So I continued to “watch the mixer.” After fifteen minutes, the egg whites began climbing out of the mixing bowl. I used a spatula to fold them back into the bowl. At twenty minutes, when it was impossible to keep the egg whites in the bowl, I turned off the mixer. She stuck her head around the corner and asked me why I turned off the machine. “I can’t keep the stuff in the bowl,” I said. She ended her telephone conversation and came into the kitchen. When she saw the stiffened egg whites, she had a very surprised look on her face. She asked me what I had done.
I didn’t know how to answer her. I was told to “watch the mixer,” and that was just what I did: I watched the mixer. I hadn’t done anything. “How did you get those egg whites that big?” she asked. “I don’t know.” I told her. “I just watched them. I didn’t do anything.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was getting pulled into the clutches of something I now call “competency.” It was always possible to hide completely in ignorance and never have a single person in the entire world suspect that you might be able to stand next to a food mixer, and to transform the contents of “Package A” into towering mounds of egg whites. But somehow I did just that. And since I had that strange - and now un-hidden - talent, I was given the task of making an angel food cake every Saturday for the next four years. “Billy,” my mother explained to anyone who would listen, “makes the best angel food cake in North America!”
I found that it was impossible to escape from that cake-making responsibility. My brothers, when asked to mix up an angel food cake, invariably botched the job. I was stuck with that Saturday routine until Grandma Tyndall asked me to “take care of her garden.” She was going away to visit with her sister for a couple of months and she wanted me to keep her garden weeded and watered. I agreed and began well enough. But the allurements of Summer dulled the bright promises I had made to Grandma Tyndall. Weeks went by without me even thinking about the garden. When Grandma Tyndall returned, her garden was a hopeless, tangled mass of weeds. “I will never let you take care of my garden again,” she said.
That very next Saturday I took the contents of “Package B” from the angel food cake mix and dumped it into the mixer. “Package B” was flour and it did not mix with water to produce those stiff peaks of egg whites. It only made a sad little puddle of paste in the bottom of the mixing bowl. “I don’t know what happened,” I told my mother when she saw the abject mixture in the bowl. She pushed me out of the way and called my younger brother. “John,” she said smiling broadly, “I’m going to show you how to make an angel food cake.”
Once again I was hidden from view in the cave of “Creative Incompetency.” John, however, was caught out in the open. He began his stint as an angel food cake baker, not knowing exactly what had happened to him.
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