In Which I Arrive an Hour and a Half Late for My Daughter’s Wedding Reception

Not the actual wedding reception but a separate reception hosted by Dayton’s family last weekend. 

Two aunts on the left, Grandmother on the right

I have a reputation for being late but outdid myself this time. How does one nonchalantly walk into a room of mostly strangers, and hope it’s not obvious that I don’t have it all together? That I had  told Google Maps to find the shortest distance route not the shortest time? I hoped a lot of people would be standing around talking, and I could slip in the back unnoticed.

No such luck. This was a small reception. We walked in at the front of the room with everyone sitting down, all eyes on us, and Dayton’s aunt jumped up and said, “Oh, you made it.” Very embarrassing. Kindness all around. Nobody blunt enough to say, “You nincompoop. Who would be stupid enough to almost miss what you drove 350 miles for?”

I’d originally declined the invitation. Between a wedding, vacation, and house projects, we’ve had a busy summer. But I had to drive to LaCrosse so decided the extra 150 miles were worth it to get to know Dayton’s family better.

So how did I, someone who's been driving for 38 years, make a mistake of such epic proportions? For starters, not giving trip planning serious thought. I had to be in Aplington, Iowa, by 6:30 Friday night. I’d driven through Aplington 15 years ago so vaguely knew its location. Iowa is mostly laid out in a mile grid so if you know the general direction, you’ll get there sooner or later.

Later, as in my case. 

Since another daughter had our GPS, I googled directions on my iPad. Google maps estimated a six and a half hour travel time. Lani and I left Northern Wisconsin at 10 a.m., thinking we had wiggle room.

We headed south, relaxed and looking forward to shopping and eating our way down to Aplington. We were taking our old dishwasher to Kiah and Dayton, which unfortunately filled up the back of my small Pontiac Vibe and almost completely blocked my rear view. When  I needed to back up, Lani had to get out of the car to give me back up signals.

Lani had stayed up to 3 a.m. the night before so planned to sleep in the car. However, I needed a navigator and being the only passenger, she was it. She sighed, picked up the iPad, and told me where to turn.

Beautiful day, good company, pretty scenery. After stopping at a bakery and thrift store, I noticed the time and realized we had used up our margin and shouldn’t make further unnecessary stops.

Google Maps listed two options: Duluth, then south on I-35 most of the way. (Boring and monotonous) or US-63 diagonally through Western Wisconsin (very pretty). Being my father's daughter, I chose the scenic route.

Three hours into the trip, Lani accidentally lost the iPad directions. Without internet, I couldn’t get them back. We found a McDonalds and sat in their parking lot to use their free Wi-fi to pull up the map again. 

We continued south and I suggested Lani screenshot the directions in case she accidentally lost the screen again, we’d still have them. Lani looked over with a sheepish grin and said, “Too late.” Seriously? She had lost the directions twice in twenty minutes. Sigh.

Tired of listening umpteen times to Lani's Viva la Vida CD by Coldplay, I found an oldies radio station while driving through Lake City, Minnesota. I was transported back to high school when I was young and didn't have the responsibility or pressure of timing road trips.

I generously provided Lani with useful bits of information. "These are the Beach Boys. They're an American classic. It's important to know who they are. This is Journey, the same group that sings "Don't Stop Believing." The Eagles song, "Best of My Love" always made me sad. Yes, I know this sounds like a woman singing, but the Bee Gees are three brothers. After an hour, Lani was tired of music history lessons and popped the Coldplay CD back in.

We kept driving and hoped to see another McDonalds. Unfortunately after US-63 crosses 
I-94, there’s not another obvious McDonalds until 80 miles later in Rochester. I started mentally kicking myself. I should have brought a Wisconsin map. Or an atlas. Or a child who knew how to navigate. In self-defense, Lani reminded me that she’s the youngest and had never had to navigate before. She usually sleeps or reads on road trips.

A car search found maps of Michigan (useless for this trip) and Minnesota which was useful for the 80 miles we were in Minnesota. We could either find a McDonalds in busy Rochester, or call Keith who would use that tone to give directions.

Thankfully a third option presented itself. Dayton called and gave us directions from Rochester. I promptly somehow turned east on I-90 instead of west.

After turning round five miles later, we were on the way again. We exited I-90 at Dexter, Minnesota, and drove south through Iowa corn and soybean fields and an occasional small town. I turned left when I should have turned right. We missed turns and got turned around. So much for being easy to find places in Iowa. 

Dayton called at 6:22 to check our progress and said we still had an hour and a half. What? Nothing sucks the fun out of a road trip more than knowing short of a life flight helicopter or a Star Trek Transporter, we had no chance of arriving on time. We bought a small bag of Doritos at the nearest convenience store to console ourselves.

While buying Doritos, I saw a wonderful, easy to understand, compact, laminated Iowa map but balked at the eight dollar price tag. I refused to spend that much when I had three Iowa maps at home. 

Lani entertained herself that last stretch with a few "This is taking forever!" selfies. 

I normally drive the speed limit or a few miles over, but under the circumstances, drove as fast as I safely could and hoped if pulled over, the officer would have pity on my plight and not issue a ticket. Thankfully we didn’t see any policemen.  

We finally arrived in Aplington and drove through town hoping to see the church somewhere. We didn't. Had to swallow my pride again and call Dayton. He directed us to turn just past the bank and Stinky’s Bar and Grill (love that name) and head north a few miles.

Just then, I heard the distinctive clanging of a railroad crossing. Ironic. To be so close and have to spend five minutes watching a LONG westbound train take its sweet time going by.

We found the church and debated how to handle our late arrival. I figured it is what it is. Everyone already knows I’m late and obviously has issues.

Lani complained to her sympathetic sisters, “Mom kept stopping to use the bathroom.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, “Lani, you hypocrite. You went every time I did.”

We had a great time and Dayton’s family made sure I knew how to get to La Crosse the next day. I had a map, written directions, Google directions on the iPad, and a screenshot. Happy to report, I made it without any glitches.

Other than arriving 15 minutes late and making my son Andrew late for work. But as we all know, it could have been worse.

I’m asking for an 8 x 10 travel atlas for my birthday next month.

The Rest of the Story

I last posted about our Japanese Spring Fling. 

Everything looked nice, people had fun, and the pictures turned out good.

BUT...

Behind the scenes all was not as it was supposed to be. 


Our speaker said the Japanese are very picky about their rice. Apparently ordinary white rice isn't good enough. She had ordered special rice from an online Asian store and said that it would come from California.

A half hour before the luncheon started I  poured two thirds of the rice bag into a pan of water. I noticed tiny black specks but assumed that since this rice was different the specks were supposed to be there. 

Meanwhile I got nervous that the rice wouldn't get done in time.  I know a watched pot never boils so I wondered how much I could stare at the pan, willing it to cook, without impeding progress. 

We flew around the kitchen attending to last minute details. I took several bites trying to tell if the rice was cooked. Finally I asked my friend Pat if she thought the rice was done.

Pat said in a concerned whisper, "There's little black things in the rice."

I assured her, "Oh those. They were there when I poured the rice out of the bag. It's California rice. It's okay." 

She looked into the pot unconvinced so I asked, "Are you afraid the rice is burnt?

Pat smiled, "No, I'm afraid those are little bugs."

We were down to the wire on time with no plan B, so only desperation and denial could explain my behavior. "Nah, it's just California rice. I've had bags of wheat berries before when I've had to pick pieces of chaff out. Just mix green onions in so the black pieces won't be obvious."

Pat politely resisted so we asked the person who bought the rice if the black things were supposed to be there. Jan (mid 50's like me) got her reading glasses, took one look in the pot, and said, "I see feet."

I was still unwilling to concede. After all, rice was one of the main components of the meal. We couldn't have Japanese Curry without rice to pour it over. I grabbed the rice bag and looked inside at the remaining uncooked rice. 

Then looked back up astonished. "The black specks are moving."

So what do mature well-adjusted people do in an emergency?

Laugh.  Of course. 

Pat suggested maybe it was our fault since the last time we were together in a kitchen her dog licked a big spot of frosting off my ugly birthday dessert.

It was now five minutes before start time. Jan lived closeby so we asked if she had any more rice at home. 

Nope. Oh to have a big box of Minute Rice in the cupboard.

One sweet young girl noticed that the bugs were mostly around the outside of the cooked rice and suggested we spoon from the middle. After five minutes of picking out good rice and only having one cup, we abandoned that idea.

Grabbing at straws, I suggested that since boiling the rice had killed the bugs, we should just chop up green onions and mix them in. I looked through the cupboards for Parsley flakes, hoping people couldn't tell the difference between green leaves and dead black bugs. (I'll understand if people never want to eat at my house again.)

My fellow cooks vetoed that idea. Jan suggested we wash the remaining uncooked rice REALLY good. She said it's like panning for gold. The rice is heavier and sinks to the bottom and the dead bugs float right to the top. 

Sure enough. Who knew?

We threw out the first batch and started cooking the second. Buying time we rearranged the program. 

Jan and I watching the rearranged program while appearing cool, calm, and collected as the second batch cooks.

Jan's husband Rick just happened to have a beautiful 20 minute slide show on their life and ministry in Japan. 

Jan thanked the women for their patience, explaining that the first batch of rice hadn't turned out, and now there wasn't a lot of rice so to please go easy on it. There was probably enough for everyone to get a couple small spoonfuls. 

I was finally able to relax and enjoy the rest of the program but us cooks giggled every time we looked at each other, certain that we'll never be able to look at rice in the same way again. 

To add insult to injury, Rick was being servant-hearted and took out the garbage. As he rounded the corner with a big white garbage bag full of trash, the bag popped a hole and a good portion of the buggy rice fell on the floor. I looked over to see Jan and Rick on their knees putting globs of rice back in the bag. 

Someone got up to help and was politely shooed away, since the cooks had agreed to not divulge what had caused the demise of "the first batch." Whenever people asked what had happened to "the first batch," we gave polite evasive answers. So I will most likely be voted off the cooking committee for spilling the beans. 

So now, as Paul Harvey would say, you know the rest of the story.

Just so I know this doesn't only happen to me, anyone else have any cooking rice or food flops when company's coming stories?

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I tell my kids that one of the benefits of getting older is that I don't care near as much what people think about me as I did when I was younger. But I had an acute attack of insecurity last week and may not be totally over it.

When invited to a birthday dinner recently, I offered to bring something. Since we would bring 10 people to the party I wanted to contribute to the meal.

I was assigned dessert. Aack!!!  Double aack!  I don't make good desserts. I can make bread in my sleep. My salads aren't too shabby. I'm a whiz with white sauce and Mexican food is my middle name, but desserts are hit and miss for me.

Procrastination didn't help matters. Who knew that waiting until the last minute was a bad idea?

My daughter-in-law Rachel suggested her tasty caramel brownie dessert recipe. My taste buds smiled in memory. Oh yes, quite tasty. Surely the ticket to impress people and be a suitable birthday dessert.

Trouble is I didn't have the necessary ingredients and procrastinating had used up the time margin so there wasn't time for a trip to a store.

I'm not sure where things went wrong.

Perhaps it was substituting the ingredients for a homemade german chocolate cake for a store bought german chocolate cake mix.

Perhaps it was trusting Google for a suitable replacement for evaporated milk.

Perhaps it was not wanting to spend $7.00 for two bags of caramels and deciding to use one bag and  leftover caramel ice cream topping.

Perhaps it was substituting ingredients, doubling the recipe, and using two different size pans so the cooking times weren't the same. 

Perhaps it was wanting to dribble white chocolate artistically in thin graceful stripes across the brownies, and then when the white chocolate held tenanciously to the spoon and refused to drip, electing to just spread the white glop like frosting. Only it didn't look like frosting. The dessert got uglier by the minute.

Perhaps it was when I had a panic attack, knowing we were already late and would be showing up with the world's ugliest birthday dessert I tried one last ditch effort and sprinkled red and green Christmas sprinkles on top. So just in case you ever need to know, Christmas sprinkles won't disguise ugly. For sure it didn't have eye appeal.

Perhaps it was the sleeve of Keith's jacket that dragged through the ugly mess on the ride over. 

Perhaps I didn't pray hard enough for the dessert to set up right.

I wish I could show you a picture of just how ugly it was, but I was too traumatized to take a picture.

I begged Keith to stop by our church to snitch borrow the leftover ice cream in the freezer to hopefully camouflage the dessert's shortcomings, only to discover the bucket was one thirds full. I prayed God would miraculously make that stretch for 21 people.

We arrived late (sigh!) and I set the dessert on an a bench on the deck outside, hoping the cold air would firm up the dessert and delay the unveiling a little longer.

I told my friend that the dessert had flopped and she kindly and politely said that she was sure it would taste all right. I didn't hold out much hope.

As people finished their meal, I knew the dreaded moment of truth had come. I whispered to my friend, "It's really ugly. I just can't carry it in with candles and sing Happy Birthday."

She smiled and said, "I'm sure it's not that bad."

I helped wash dishes and she went outside to fetch the bedraggled brownies. She came into the kitchen and whispered, "Did your dessert look like that when you brought it?"

I took one look at the big spot without white chocolate frosting and Christmas sprinkles and immediately knew what had happened. I whispered back, "Was your dog outside?"

She nodded and we both giggled, for now the dessert, if possible, was even uglier than before. We discreetly put the part the dog licked into the garbage, put one piece on the plate, added a small scoop of vanilla ice cream and a lit candle and walked out to sing Happy Birthday.

Turns out the dessert tasted fine. Very rich, but tasty if you didn't know what it was supposed to be like. Speaking of which, Rachel said, "Is this my recipe? I didn't recognize it with the white chocolate."

Either the birthday boy was being polite, or it tasted better than it looked, but he came back for seconds. No one asked for the recipe, but it's just as well as there's no possibility the recipe could be reproduced. It was an original, that's for sure.

Next time I'll either bake a birthday cake, buy one from the Wal-Mart bakery, or offer to bring Guacamole.

Or Little Smokies.

Or both.