Reflections - Cracker Jack Challenges 

 

I'm A Writer Superpower T-Shirt

 

I love challenges. And the Area 1 Pennwriters picnic writing contest tickled my fancy many a year. This August I had planned to skip the contest and focus my attention on the Disappearing Blueberries blog. But I opened the email listing required words: 1. Cracker Jacks, 2. Flag, 3. Rebound, 4. Hooligan’s, 5. Nutmeg, 6. Bucket, 7. Ace, 8. Juggling, 9. Rush, 10. RBI (Use a sequence of words beginning with those letters.)

Cracker Jacks? A vague childhood excitement, of chewing the sugary snacks and looking for the surprise at the bottom of the box, tugged at my heart. Cracker Jacks yanked my imagination and wouldn’t let go. Maybe I could slip into the poem-a day writing mindset I’d developed in April and dash off something quick.

You’re kidding.

Miracles happen.

Rejected drafts happen more often.

Maybe I’ll need two or three days.

You’ll be writing and scratching out lines for weeks.

I haven’t written a word and you’re editing. Sheesh!

I didn’t write and scratch a poem. I wrote and scratched out a story.

* * *

    Rob kicked the inside of the hammock. He swatted flies with Dad’s tattered Spider-Man comic. If Mom would only ease her no snack rule.

“Robbie!” Jenny grabbed the shaking hammock. “Mom got Cracker Jacks! They were sticking out of the grocery bag.”

Swinging the hammock upside down, Rob dropped onto his hands and knees. “Let’s snatch the Cracker Jacks—”

She pulled him to his feet, “—and spend the afternoon like Dad—”

Rob headed for the house. “—did when he—”

“—was our age.” Jenny followed.

The two barreled into the kitchen and bumped Mom, who, juggling a handful of spices, dropped the nutmeg.

Rob caught it and handed it to her. “We came to help.”

“Goodness,” Mom pressed a hand against her chest. “Thanks, but if I put things away myself, I can find them again. Go play. The block club will be here soon.” She held the door open for the twins.

    They jumped off the back porch and ambled to the garage so Mom couldn’t hear.

Jenny spoke first. “The Cracker Jacks are on the fridge.” She ducked between the car and the bicycles to fetch a bucket then came out with her hand extended. “Give me your bandanna.”

He giant-stepped away. “Dad gave me that.”

“So? When Mom leaves the kitchen,” Jenny flapped her hand, “I’ll flag you.”

Clutching the bandanna, Jenny ran down the driveway and set the bucket upside down under the dining room window. She stepped on the bucket and peered inside. The bucket wobbled on the gravel, but she kept her balance by holding onto the window ledge.

The window flew open.

Mom’s head popped out.

Jenny fell on her butt, her hands grinding into the gravel.

Mom scowled. “What are you doing?”

Jenny rubbed stones off her palms. “Um . . . I was . . .”

Rob rushed up and grabbed the bandanna. “She cleaned bird doo-doo.” He helped Jenny up. “Off the window.”

“I didn't see any . . . ” Mom’s voice softened. “Come in. I’ll check your scraped hands. Then you two hooligans stay outside.”

Jenny tossed a tennis ball over the burning bushes and against the garage. “We’ve got to ace the next try.”

Rob caught the ball on the rebound. “Here’s the plan. The doorbell rings. I count three, tiptoe in, and grab the Cracker Jacks.” He threw the ball. The twins let it bounce on the ground. They raced back to the house and crouched by the back porch. After what seemed like a year, the front doorbell rang. Rob mouthed his silent count then tiptoed halfway to the refrigerator.

Mom came into the kitchen and picked up the coffee urn. “Robert Benjamin Irving! I told you to STAY OUTSIDE.”

Rob froze. “Um . . . er . . . well . . . ”

Jenny burst through the screen door. “It’s my fault.”

Mom scowled.

Jenny spread her arms wide. “I made him go in. I said you’d get mad if he peed in the bushes. Especially if the grouchy neighbors saw him.”

“Heavens.” Mom took a deep breath and mumbled. “They’re only ten. What will life be like when they’re sixteen?” Shaking her head, she pointed to the bathroom. “Go. Then skedaddle. My meeting’s starting.”

Rob lay in the hammock with Jenny—their heads at opposite ends, their legs side by side.

She bumped his knee with hers. “We could ask Dad, but—”

“—he won’t break Mom’s rules.” Rob sighed from the bottom of his empty belly. Holding his finger above his face, he closed one eye then the other. He watched the finger shift positions against the oak branch until the finger popped onto Mom's face. He stiffened.

“You two discombobulated me so much, I forgot.” She dropped an Amelia Rules comic onto Jenny’s lap and an Archie onto Rob’s. “I saw how your eyes sparkled when Bob talked about his boyhood summers. So I bought these for you.” She pushed the hammock. “You did try to help.” Before returning to her meeting, she gave the twins two boxes of Cracker Jacks.

* * *

 

I Make Stuff Up T-Shirt

I didn’t celebrate the completed challenge. Though the story pleased me, I drooped like I had when I finished the last stitch in the stole for my Regency gown only to discover COVID canceled the Jane Austen ball. I didn’t have the time or energy to drive to Presque Isle and share the Cracker Jack story with the Area 1 picnickers. I stayed home and concentrated every spare second on the Disappearing Blueberries blog—another challenge, especially since Cracker Jacks kept interrupting my thoughts.

I needed closure. I couldn’t buy a box and gobble a handful to sate the childhood craving that had lain dormant for decades. Cracker Jacks contain soy—a no-no for me. Maybe I could exorcise the snack obsession by sharing the story with my friend Maggie Tuesday evening.

“I loved it,” her cheery voice bubbled over the land line. “Especially the bucket part. My sisters and I were like Irish triplets being only a year apart in age. Mom wouldn’t let us take our dolls outside. We tied our hair ribbons together and lowered the dolls out the window in a bag. It worked for a week.”

Visualizing a bag of dolls being lowered on colorful ribbons could cast the Cracker Jacks out of my mind.

“We were concentrating on getting the dolls down safely. We didn't know Mom was watching the bag through the window downstairs.”

Maggie and I belly laughed. She always lifts my spirits.

“You know. My mom made us cracker jacks all the time. She used light corn syrup. Mmm. They tasted delicious.”

The cracker jack snack obsession compounded. I didn’t have closure. I had another challenge.

At the kitchen table the next afternoon, I searched the internet for homemade cracker jack recipes. I settled on the one that used molasses instead of corn syrup [link] and studied the details. We had the basic ingredients but I would need popcorn, Spanish peanuts, and a candy thermometer.

Jumping up, I sifted through the contents of the utensil drawer. We had three meat thermometers. I asked Spence, who was mixing pizza dough at the counter, “Can I substitute a meat thermometer for a candy thermometer? The recipe says I need to bring the molasses-sugar mixture to two hundred forty-eight degrees.”

Spence shook his head. “They don’t go that high.”

Our son Charlie walked in from the guest room, which should be called Charlie’s room now. UPS transferred him to Meadville in mid July. He’s been living with us and moving carloads of belongings out of his Seneca apartment on weekends. “I have one in Seneca. I’ll bring it.” That, the fourth weekend in August, would be his last load.

Friday Spence bought the popcorn at Giant Eagle and the peanuts at the Amish grocery, Windy Knoll. Charlie brought the candy thermometer Sunday. I would bake the cracker jacks when Charlie got home from work Monday so he could help with the thermometer.

My fellas enable my schemes.

Then Sunday, Spence finished his cheesy eggs in the oven. He pulled out the perfected eggs, shut the door, and turned off the broiler. Poof. Sparks of light shot through the oven. The broiler element broke with a big flash. After that, the bottom element heated, but the temperature control never left the preheat setting.

My body must have sagged as much as my spirits because Spence said, “The oven still heats. Just be careful.”

Judging “careful” on a new recipe seemed risky. I preferred to wait for the oven repairman even if it took weeks. Luckily, a young fella replaced the broiler element in less than ten minutes on Tuesday.

Before another dilemma or disaster could intervene, I set my laptop on the kitchen table Wednesday afternoon and gathered ingredients. “Charlie, I want to make the cracker jacks now. I need your help.”

He stood by the table and gave me the quiet “okay” he does when we finish lunch and I ask him to play Cat Lady yet again.

“I’m debating whether to make a half batch. A whole batch uses a half cup of popcorn kernels.”

“That amount would fill two of those.” Charlie pointed to the half gallon container he uses for popping corn in the microwave. “I won’t eat any. I don’t like cracker jacks,” he said.

Did I want to pop twice? Probably not. And Spence, a diabetic, wouldn’t eat any. I didn’t need all those sugary calories. “Half a batch it is.”

Puttering away, I halved ingredients and checked three websites.  “One-eighth cup equals two tablespoons or does —”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “One-eighth cup is two tablespoons.”

I measured the molasses and dripped it onto the brown sugar and olive oil. Substituting olive oil for butter, because of my dairy intolerance, meant the candy would have a different flavor. Worse, I wouldn’t know when the “butter”  melted—the signal to stop stirring. Wouldn’t the candy stick and burn if I didn’t stir it while the temperature rose to 248°? When the sugar seemed to blend with the oil, I stopped stirring and stuck the thermometer into the boiling mixture.

Charlie quietly walked to my side and adjusted the way I’d hooked the thermometer to the saucepan. “It shouldn’t touch the bottom.” He backed away.

The thermometer’s blue line stayed low for ages. I detected the faint smell of burning. Maybe that came from a dollop that dripped off the spoon when I stopped stirring. Finally, the blue line crept upward.

Carrying three grocery bags, Spence burst in the front door. “I got your almond milk.”

“Oh, dear.” I stared at the thermometer. “The table’s covered with baking stuff.”

“No worries.” He plopped the grocery bags on his all purpose sofa. “How’s it going?”

“I forgot to grease the cookie trays.”

“I got it.” Spence greased two trays.

Charlie shoved stuff around on the table to make room for them.

The blue line climbed fast then faster reaching its mark. A definite odor of burnt candy came from the stove. Pulling the pan off, I added the vanilla and baking soda. The mixture started cooling as I poured it over the waiting popcorn and peanuts. “Uh-oh,” I wailed, stirring then cutting with the spatula.

“It’s fine.” Spence pantomimed cutting in the air. “Keep cutting. That’s a girl.”

Using the spatula and fingers, I spread the mixture out on the cookie sheets, took a taste test—a faint burnt flavor mixed with the molasses—and put the mix in the oven to “dry” at 250°. The oven worked, but the cracker jacks didn’t dry. I left them baking longer. They still didn’t dry. Afraid the slightly burnt snacks would really burn, I pulled them out.

After dinner, I munched a handful. I had expected, rather hoped, to find the snack so sweet that I would dump the batch into the garbage to avoid consuming the unnecessary calories. Instead, the slight burning and olive oil gave them a bittersweet flavor reminiscent of coffee. They were intriguing and addictive—not delicious like the ones Maggie’s mom made. 

Yes, were. Thank goodness I ran out of brown sugar. I can’t make another batch. I’m planning to take up a new challenge involving zero calories before Spence’s next trip to the grocery store.

Homemade Cracker Jacks

 Reflections - Disappearing Blueberries

Ripening Blueberries

I don’t count blueberries before they ripen. I do drool.

Spring clusters of green berries bring to mind the fresh baked fragrance of blueberry-apple pie, the twangy-sweet taste of blueberry drop cookies, and the dark blue fruit polka-dotting steamy-hot oatmeal.

Drooling and daydreaming don’t get a harvest. It takes work.

Spence taught me to rake needles from under the old pine stand and mound them in donut shapes around the bushes in fall. “You don’t have to weed,” he’d said. Of course I did.

Then, I pulled the rattly garden wagon to the old pine stand. Avoiding bird droppings and tossing twigs, I scratched the leaf rake over the ground. Blue jays scolded from pine boughs. The orange straw released a piney fragrance. It also provided acid soil and discouraged weeds. I mounded it a foot high to be extra discouraging.

On a steamy Thursday in mid June, Spence agreed to help cover our four mature blueberry bushes in the north garden. Their twelve foot square cage had a chicken wire bottom and frame of PVC pipes on top to hold row cover cloth.

An exhaustive search through the basement, cold cellar, and garage turned up the supplies we needed—binder clips, saved reusable cable ties, a new package of row cover cloth, and cloths stored from past years. We lugged the materials outside and dropped them beside the cage. My mouth dropped too. Weeds had found their way through the thick mulch. Covering would have to wait. I fetched garden gloves and a trowel.

Crawling between bushes, I dug dandelions, white root, and thistles.

Outside the cage, Spence pushed the hand mower. It puttered along, choked on a tough bit, and puttered on again.

When the mower silenced, I shouted, “Bring the big shovel.”

He returned and leaned on the shovel. “Why?”

I pointed. “The trowel won’t dig those huge things.”

“Elephant ears.” Spence snuggled the shovel under the leaves, loosened the soil all around, and lifted the giant out. Freeing two more, he reached for my hand. Because he calls me his fragile butterfly, he limits our time outside in hot weather to forty-five minutes. “Time for a water break.” 

Though I wanted to finish weeding and get the cover up, I was sweltering. Sweat soaked my hair and dripped down my forehead. I grabbed his hand and followed him. He drank water—carbonated lime flavored. I gulped rooibos ice tea and trudged back to finish weeding.

The next day Spence lugged the coverings outside, dumped them beside the cage, and brushed his hands together. “It’s your project. Where do you want me?”

“Back there.” I pointed to the corner by the tall spruce tree. Grabbing the end of an old cover cloth, I squeezed between the cage and the spruce branches. They brushed my face and released a sweet-spicy scent. Pulling the cloth along the frame, I realized I’d forgotten the binder clips. Not a problem. Spence would expect me to change my mind. “Come hold this.”

With the breeze helping lift the old and new cloths over the eight foot frame, we clipped them to the back and middle of the frame before he trundled off on his tractor. Being sure not to leave any gaps for birds, I replaced the clips with cable ties. The flapping white cover attracted spiders, bees, and flies. Ignoring them, I slit holes with scissors, stuck the ties through, and secured the cloth to the PVC pipes.

Clouds rolled in. Spence called, “Water break.”

“But the cover isn’t secure and it’s going to storm.”

He motioned toward the house with his head. “It’s a good test. The storm will find weaknesses. You can fix them tomorrow.”

The storm didn’t find any weaknesses. I finished covering and whispered to the berries, “You can ripen as fast as you want now.”

 

North Garden Blueberry Cage

Those words would come back to haunt me.

I managed the six south garden blueberry cages alone. Each had the same design—chicken wire bottoms and PVC frames at the top to hold the row cover cloth. In a forward bend pose on the steamy, ninety degree second day of summer, I pulled out chickweed, ground ivy, and thistles. The wire jabbed my belly, and branches knocked my sun hat off again and again.

The next week I stretched used cloths across the grass to find the least holey. My hand brushed the remains of sticky moth chrysalises. After rubbing the yuck off on the grass, I patched the covers as if piecing a quilt. I hung and secured them, mouthing a clip or tie to wave at honking neighbors. I never knew which neighbor because their vehicles—throwing up dust clouds that drifted to the cages and me—passed faster than I could turn around. 

By June 29, I’d covered all the bushes. Bears, raccoons, and birds would not get another blueberry. The rest were for me—or so I planned. Every other day, I peeked into the cages. 

Finally, on July 10 when milkweed gave off a heavy, sweet scent attracting bees and great spangled fritillary butterflies, ripe blueberries hung from the biggest bush in the north garden. I ran for my picking bucket. Sleigh bells jingling against its sides, I eased the ripe berries off the branches. Plink. Plink. Plink. A dozen berries rolled on the bottom of the gallon bucket. The ripening pace should pick up.

It didn’t.

Two days later no berries had ripened and none on the third day. Even odder, there seemed to be fewer green ones. No berries had fallen onto the straw. No gaps allowed birds to fly in. On the sixteenth, a puny, ripe blueberry dangled among even fewer green ones.

Angry, frustrated, and discouraged, I marched to the great room and shoved the picking bucket between Spence and his computer.

He peered into the bucket. “It’s a blueberry.”

“Yes. One. And the green berries are disappearing as if they’re evaporating.” I hugged the bucket to my chest. “Bugs would have left half-chewed bits.”

Spence put his computer on the coffee table and stood to place calming hands on my shoulders. “It’s been dry. Too dry.” 

I knew that. Spending hours watering tomatoes, squash, and cucumbers, Spence had run a five hundred gallon cistern dry so hooked up a hose to the second one.

Spence squeezed my shoulders. “May was wet. The bushes set a lot of fruit. They took back the water to survive.” He took a deep breath. “Metaphorically, the blueberries evaporated.”

His calming voice gave me a little comfort. “But where did the skins go?”

He shrugged. “Dropped into the straw.”

Dig through the pine straw where snakes, mice, and voles lurked in search of shriveled green skins? No need. Spence confirmed my evaporating theory. I retired the picking bucket for the season.

Disgruntled over all the work I’d invested for thirteen blueberries, I delayed removing the covers. Honking continued. Dust drifted. Weeks passed. I imagined neighbors wondering why I left the covers up so long. Embarrassed, I talked myself into removing them at the beginning of August.

Then it rained. I had to wait for the cover cloths to dry.

August 10 dawned blue-sky sunny. Washing the breakfast dishes, I gazed out the kitchen window into the north garden. The fat groundhog—that lived under the old woodshed and seemed impervious to the stinky mounds of used litter-repellent our tabby cats created—grazed on white clover. Goldfinches flitted among drying thistles. A good day to go out. “I’ll take down some blueberry covers today,” I called across the great room to Spence sitting on the sofa, his volunteer desk. “Do you have any garden work?”

“In the south garden.” He put a finger on his clipboard and glanced up. “We can go this afternoon.”

Afternoon came, and Spence stared at his computer screen.

Grabbing two binder clips and two plastic grocery bags, I said, “I’m going to the south garden.”

Spence waved. “I’ll be out soon.”

 

Six-Spotted Fishing Spider

The tall river willow shaded the blueberry cages. Nature provided a comfortable breeze. Using the binder clips, I attached a grocery bag to my left jeans pocket for collecting reusable cable ties and the other bag to my right pocket for binder clips. Looking clownish, I reached for a tie. The tie had a box with a tab on the side. Pressing the tab down while pushing the straight piece backwards through the box released the tie for reuse. I squeezed the little levers and pushed ties again and again. Beetles scurried and moths fluttered across the covers. I released all except one stubborn tie when I spied a few green and pink berries clinging to branches.

In August?

We’d never had blueberries in August. Leaving the cloth dangling, I checked the other bushes. No berries on four. The fifth had some and two were ripe! I picked them, jogged inside, and held my hand under Spence’s nose.

He leaned back. “Huh. We had rain.” He shook his head. “But who heard of blueberries ripening in August?”

Back outside, my index fingers and thumbs ached from pressing the release on cable ties. I bravely swept earwigs, caterpillars, and spiders off the covers. I folded them for next year—if I tried for another crop. With one cover left to remove, the tip of my index finger throbbed. I trudged inside. “Spence, may I cut the stubborn cable ties that won’t come apart?”

“Yes.” He stopped typing. “But I’ll be out soon.”

I took the scissors. After uncovering the last bush, I used every binder clip I'd collected to reattach the first cage’s cloth. Since Spence hadn’t come out to release the stubborn ties, I cut them and put the materials away.

When I joined Spence in the great room, he shut his computer lid and said, “The work just wouldn’t end.”

Ditto for taking care of berries.

Three days later, wild turkeys clucked in the woods. I tangoed with the spruce tree and plucked beetles off the row cloth to uncover the north garden blueberries. A six-spotted fishing spider, the size of a half dollar, nestled between folds by the cage door. She clutched an egg sack bigger than her abdomen. Freeing cable ties around her, I hoped she would move.

She didn’t.

I lifted the cloth to expose her.

She scurried further into the folds.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I took her photo.

Spence walked past and peered over my shoulder. “You’re annoying her.”

I left to finish the other sections. A good choice, I later learned on an internet search, because those spiders bite if people annoy them. And their bites zap like bee or wasp stings.

South garden berries are still ripening a few at a time. I sprinkle one or two on my oatmeal and sigh. 

Spence says, “Wait till next year.” 

I could argue that climate scientists warn conditions will worsen. Our cisterns won’t have enough water for the garden and blueberries. All the work we put into the harvest isn’t worth the pitiful outcome. I might as well burn the cover cloths and let the birds eat the green berries.

Or I could be hopeful. Perhaps I could cover and water one or two of the most productive bushes and leave the others exposed for the critters to enjoy.

I don’t count blueberries before they ripen. I do expect more than a handful.

Green Blueberries