Thursday, May 12, 2005

Invasion

Late June 1998

Ah, the glory of nature, the grandeur of the great outdoors! The gentle breezes caressing the cheek, the sunlight dancing on dewy petals, the soothing buzzing of the busy bees — or are those yellow jackets? — the peaceful labors of the industrious ant — Hey, they've taken over the picnic basket. Yes, Nature's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Even in the days when I consorted with flower children, I regarded the notion of going back to nature with suspicion. What about poison ivy? Creepy little bugs, buzzy divebombers that hit and run, putrid pools of infested water? Ick. Now, the notion is unthinkable: Where would I plug in my computer and modem in the woods?

A few years ago I tried hypnosis, seeking relief from the terrors of the workplace, specifically the horror of writing those awkward captions to the photos you see in your newspaper. How to get all the names in, say something suitable, and all in two lines? — and be sure you've got the right photo! The stress was hacking away at me like a woodpecker at a tree. As I lay on the therapist's plaid couch, he tried to take me to a happy place, away from glowing and glowering computer screens, gruff managers, frazzled editors, ragged reporters and cruel page designers. Where does he put me? In the bosom of nature, sitting under a strong, solid, sheltering tree on a mild spring day.

I was miserable. How could I be happy and content and freed from caption anxiety when heaven knew what tiny, gruesome faces were lurking in the folds of the bark, planning their evil assault on my tender flesh? What if I were sitting, unawares, on a mound of fire ants? And though light winds are nice, my flyaway hair was tickling my face, and my nose itched horribly. How could I concentrate under these conditions? Not the best-spent money of my career. The next time, the therapist conjured up a clean living room (miraculous!), with a cat or two to give me a sense of communion with the earth. My fear of captions was never completely cured, but at least I have a vision of a happier place.

The Fourth of July is bearing down on us with compulsory picnics, Firefall and the like, fiendishly planned for the first wretchedly hot week of summer. You won't catch me out in the wild. Think of all the effort it takes to do a respectable picnic — packing food so it won't ooze out on the car seat or spread alluring smells; fighting the throng for a decent spot and dealing with those inevitable, unwanted guests.

Here in Texas I have quite enough nature right inside. The outdoors is so oppressively hot and rainless and miserable that the ants have no interest in staying at home with Mother Nature. So they've all moved in with us, lured by the dripping faucets and the whir of the air conditioning. No corner of the house is safe, but the kitchen is most under siege. It makes mealtime a real challenge.

You know, we might just have that picnic after all: It's safer outside.

******************************

I suspect the ants who have invaded our house aren't real ants, but scheming aliens who want to demoralize me thoroughly and gain a firm foothold for their planetary takeover by altering the course of cookery.

Face it, they aren't normal ants. Sure, they pretend to be, hanging around the usual places, where water and food await. But these ants are evil. They even go after dry goods, and dry cat food. It's. The spouse has taken to spraying his favorite chair with "Off!"

Most suspicious, however, is the way they've taken to massing in the far corner of my little "study" upstairs. The "ants" must know how shamelessly I waste my time in here, pretending to write such high prose as this, but in truth wandering aimlessly over the Web and engaging in bizarre little squabbles in high-volume e-mail lists.

The aliens, meanwhile, let me know that they're onto me, and that THEY know how to work. Their industriousness is beginning to drive me batty.

So I retreated to a happy place and time, a day or two before I got married. The fiance and I and a very few very close relatives piled into a couple of cars and had a picnic at Austin's glorious Zilker Park. My mother had worked madly to make a divine repast. I was still smoking cigarettes. I could forget we were outside.

One of the desserts my mother made was a Grand Marnier Cake, from "The Picnic Gourmet" (1975/1977), a lovely book by Joan Hemingway (a granddaughter of Ernest) and Connie Maricich. We didn't let any vile critters make off with that masterpiece.

GRAND MARNIER CAKE
Cake:
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
3 large eggs, separated
1 tablespoon Grand Marnier
2 cups sifted unbleached flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/4 cups sour cream
grated rind of one orange
1 cup chopped walnuts
Topping:
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup orange juice
1/3 cup Grand Marnier
slivered almonds

1. In a big bowl, cream butter and sugar until smooth and pale. Beat in yolks one at a time; add 1 tablespoon of Grand Marnier.
2. Whisk or sift together the flour, baking powder and baking soda, and add to batter in three parts, alternating with sour cream; beat each time until smooth. Stir in orange rind and walnuts.
3. In a clean, dry bowl with clean, dry beaters, beat egg whites until stiff but not dry. Fold gently into batter.
4. Pour batter into well-greased Bundt pan, and place in a preheated 350-degree oven. Bake for about 50 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Let cool before removing from pan.
5. Mix together topping ingredients, and have some slivered almonds ready. If you're actually taking this cake to a picnic, carry the cake in its pan, wrapped in foil, and bring the topping in a little plastic container.
6. At serving time, pour the topping over the cake and sprinkle with almonds.

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