The Tiramisu That Shouldn't Have Been

It was his birthday two weeks ago and I am only now getting around to speaking about the Tiramisu that shouldn't have been. I had gone to the market and picked up marscarpone and ladyfingers among other items. I envisioned having the Marsala at home. We use Marsala often and I thought to myself, I must have coffee liqueur as tiramisu is a family favorite. I allotted the evening before his birthday to prepare the dessert. As often happens when I am rigid about keeping a specific schedule and fulfilling circumstances by a designated time, my carefully laid plan never came to fruition. I worked later than anticipated and then I had to help someone do something which at this moment escapes me, but it was significant. I remember it being significant. More significant than making tiramisu. I arrived home late in the evening, frustrated and disgruntled. 

I woke the next morning, the morning of his birthday, at 5:30 am. I was going to make tiramisu for my husband. I'd like to say I wake up every morning that early to exercise or meditate, or do something meaningful, but the truth is 5:30 am activity is a rarity for me so this was a momentous occasion. It was quiet and dark in the kitchen. The window was open. A subtle breeze snuck in, enveloping me in morning chill. I gathered my ingredients from the pantry and realized I was missing some critical elements: Marsala and coffee liqueur. Another flaw in my plan, more spilled milk. I got anxious as I lost my illusion, albeit foolish illusion, of control. I hadn't the time to run back to the store before work, so I broke the rules and used ingredients that should not have worked. Articles on the internet emphatically declared, "do not substitute x, y or z. These are crucial to an authentic tiramisu." Miraculously, the tiramisu came out beautifully and was enjoyed by many. I have included my flawed recipe adapted from Epicurious below because it should not have worked, and it did. It shouldn't have been and it was. 

This experience, although insignificant in the grand scheme of a lifetime was poignant and I can only try to understand why. It was dessert after all, not a peace treaty or a cure for a debilitating illness. It spoke to my error in imagining I can have any level of true control or perfect understanding. To me, perfectionism is a desire for the unattainable. If something is unattainable you can always keep yourself down, prey on your flaws and live perpetually imprisoned. It becomes safe to hold yourself at a distance rather than embracing your imperfections. To chastise and belittle is easy. To look at what is ugly and fallible in you, and others for that matter, and say I choose to accept you anyway takes courage. We are all worthy of that.

Once the cocoa powder tops the square gridlines made by the baker's twine, you have guides for slicing. 

I speak of my personal experiences to combat with my words and my might the appeal of perfection that our culture dictates should be the desired outcome. That dreadful "should". What a reprehensible term. Should makes me doubt myself at each juncture looking for other people, things, or attributes to give me the feelings of security and esteem I could be giving to myself. It feels like a perverse journey of attainment, temporary relief and then additional seeking. A brief moment of peace followed by desperately canvassing our mind to find what we need next to be ok. I even seek perfect order in my thoughts. This is especially problematic when I have faulty neurons firing stupid sh*t that is least of all what I want to be dwelling on.  The nagging feeling persists that in order to be acceptable, all must be just right. Guilt and shame creep in.  I must put Marsala in my tiramisu, I must earn an impressive wage, I must please others, have control, have a plan, maintain a clean home, insert whatever limiting belief keeps you from being content in your mind and skin. 

Although I rationally know otherwise, my wiring leads me to believe nothing less than certainty will do.   Certainty that my tiramisu will turn out alright, that my husband's birthday will be saved. For the parents out there, the sentiment can be a desire to have your children turn out ok, for the professionals a desire to do your job perfectly well. I burden myself trying to discern what comprises a good life. What should be happening at this very moment? Are my thoughts and actions acceptable? Am I absolutely certain that I am living up to the standard I have set dictated by the pitfalls of the should, guilt, shame, and social comparison? But this certainly doesn't exist. All that exists in seeking certainty is cognitive dissonance that makes me anxious, and anxiety that makes my body ache, my mind uneasy. And it does not feel good, not in the least. 

I cannot be any other place than I currently am at this instant. I cannot do better than my best. I cannot change my brain but I can lean into it and learn to love it and accept it. My environment and upbringing, my unique chemistry, the decisions I have made, a little luck and a dose destiny have led me to this very place. Panicked and barefoot in a cold kitchen with no Marsala. And it feels good when I let go of my need for certainty and control.  The only thing we definitively have is right here, right now, mess and all. It is not perfect, but it is ours. Put the Sherry in your tiramisu. It'll turn out just fine.

You'll Need*:

• 2 cups boiling-hot water
• 3 tablespoons instant-espresso powder
• 1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar, divided
• 3 tablespoons pumpkin pie liqueur (or coffee liqueur if you have it*)
• 4 large egg yolks
• 1/3 cup cream of sherry (or dry Marsala if the stars have aligned in your kitchen*)
• 1 pound mascarpone (2 1/2 cups)
• 1 cup chilled heavy cream
• 36 Italian ladyfingers; from two 7-ounce packages
• Unsweetened cocoa powder for dusting

To Prepare:

• Stir together water, espresso powder, 1 tablespoon sugar, and liqueur in a shallow bowl until sugar has dissolved, then cool. 
• Beat egg yolks, Sherry, and remaining 1/2 cup sugar in a metal bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water using a handheld electric mixer until tripled in volume, 5 to 8 minutes. Remove bowl from heat. Beat in mascarpone until just combined.
• Beat cream in a large bowl until it holds stiff peaks.
• Fold mascarpone mixture into whipped cream gently but thoroughly.
• Dipping both sides of each ladyfinger into coffee mixture, line bottom of a 13- by 9- by 3-inch baking pan with 18 ladyfingers in 3 rows, trimming edges to fit if necessary. (I did this wrong as well. I filled the dish with cream first. I have no idea why but I wanted to line the bottom with cream, which doesn't make much sense because the cookies make for a more stable base when serving. Regardless, it firmed up just fine in the refrigerator and serving was not difficult. No one noticed the difference. Lesson: how the catastrophes in our narrow minded outlooks are really anything but catastrophic.)
• Spread half of mascarpone filling on top. Dip remaining 18 ladyfingers in coffee and arrange over filling in pan.
• Spread remaining mascarpone filling on top and dust with cocoa. Chill, covered, at least 6 hours.
• Let tiramisu stand at room temperature 30 minutes before serving, then dust with more cocoa.

Source: Epicurious 2009
Special thanks as always to the writers and the dreamers Brené Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert whose works I find such solace in.   

Return on Investment

Get an education, the masses said. It's the surest way to ensure a prosperous future. Study hard, the teachers said, and the world will be yours. I listened to their entreaties. I always listened without fail. The alternative was a frightening prospect. Thoughts loomed in my mind of wasted potential, missed opportunities, and an uncertain future, ill-prepared for.

So I studied and I strived, joined clubs, and played music. I swam on the team, volunteered, and took challenging classes. When my parents received the letter that I had been accepted to Georgetown University, they cried. My dad, all six feet three inches of him, weeped.

Towards the end of my time as an undergraduate, I was ready to venture out into the real world and ride this promising wave of momentum. I walked across the stage, received my diploma, and uttered to myself, "I have arrived." Love kept me in Washington for two years after graduating. A string of less than desirable jobs there eventually led me back home to New Jersey. Yet every position, however volatile, taught me something critical. I value these experiences as necessary for my journey. The difficult lessons were the most formative. I grappled with the disillusionment of the entry level space, desperate to yell at someone, anyone, "But I have ideas. I can do things. Please just let me show you." After many tears, more positions left then I care to divulge (one lasted eight days, yes you heard correctly), and the festering fear that maybe I wasn't cut out for the world of work, I was fortunate to find a nurturing and motivating boss. He taught me a lot about the web and practical things. Most significant were his lessons about valuing what is truly significant: time wth loved ones. Although I no longer work there, this experience gave me a renewed faith that there was decency to be found beyond Healy Gates.

I've yet to receive a return on investment in a purely quantitative sense of the word. My loans roll in and my husband and I work to make the bills month to month. My parents are still saddled with a bulk of the debt that amasses when a child attends a premier institution in a blue collar family. At marriage preparation they told us to save a small fortune in the case of a tragedy. Have they seen the job market? Have they experienced the doldrums of entry level positions, of having your idealism squelched and your sensitivity misconstrued for weakness and inadequacy? I had faith that being a good student would be enough and believed the future would naturally take care of itself. I was so entranced by the experiences unraveling around me that I forgot to lay concrete plans.  I've arrived, an adult, and yet I still feel so lost. But here is what I do know for certain... 

In my four years in university, I experienced more than I ever dreamed was possible. In the nation's capital the world rested at my fingertips, literally for the taking. Decisions made had tangible outcomes. For every action, an equal but opposite reaction. In college, this law of nature rang true with blatant proof. With effort came achievement, and it was measurable. I could touch it, and appreciate the feeling of having found it. I was validated. There were committees, certifcates of completion, and curricula. Syllabi outlined metrics for success and with a meticulous attention to detail, they were completed every time. In those four years I discovered my fervor to achieve and to contribute. The single most valuable takeaway university afforded me was the ability to think. This precious gift I will use every day for the rest of my existence, whether I end up a high-power professional, a diligent nurturer, a vagabond or a combination of them all. 

In those four years, I flew 22 hours to Hong Kong and danced in an obscure club with bright students from all over the world, one more driven than the next. I walked out of my dorm room and trotted straight to the Inauguration, Aretha's voice singing the National Anthem still echoing in my ears. I studied abroad in Italy with my classmates. We lived in a charming convent on the corner of a quaint brick road in a small town. We chatted animatedly in the sunny garden, digesting each page of culture and possibility. We prepared meals from scratch each day with fresh ingredients retrieved from the center of town and fed stray dogs to the disdain of the locals. We prayed in Assissi and looked on in awe at Carmina Burana under a starless Italian sky.  We sang songs and picked lemons in the Amalfi Coast. I discovered the joy of being a part of a grassroots movement endeavoring to make the world better, more accepting. As cliché as it may seem, during those four years it became evident that young adults if given the opportunity are capable of astounding works. In our naivete, we think not of limitations, only of what we will need to achieve the desired end we so desperately crave. 

I biked miles through the center of the city, a herald for friendship and inclusion. I dined at the residence of the Vice President, several embassies, and in poorly lit dorm rooms with tomorrow's leaders. I befriended individuals who would stand by me the day I wed, who I would laugh with and cry with, and spend countless hours on the phone while eating ice cream with. I met a vivacious spitfire from Newark, a German teacher full of grace, countless doctors, entrepreneurs, and humanitarians, a brilliant attorney, and change makers when they were at the very beginning of their respective journeys. And while time and space will separate us, the chant of Hoya Saxa will keep us tethered regardless. 

I ate Ethiopian food for the first time, lent my voice to sing in front of the Pope, and danced in the dark at the 930 club. High tea at the Willard Hotel, the National Tree Lighting, long nights in the library, and being called to action.  A job I sought to make a little extra money was the place I laid eyes on a quiet Chef with expressive hazel eyes that would become my husband. I felt the joy of participation and community. I found my path to advocate for and with the individuals our society all too often casts aside thanks to the welcoming smile of a young woman with Down Syndrome at the student activites fair. I dreamt of possibilities in a cramped corner of countless Amtrak trains, chatted with strangers if just for a moment, and ate french fries and falafel out of a cone. I fell in love with learning.

It's best for my soul and my mind to accept that it's ok I have yet to recoup what it cost to attend,  earn a commanding salary or some lofty title. It's ok I will be forever indebted to my family for sending me to this home away from home on the hill. Every victory no matter how small, I can attribute to this selfless gift of theirs. Every opportunity to think critically, to extend a hand of compassion, to contribute is born of this gift.  Selfishly, I want to be significant and Georgetown gave me significance. It gave me a badge of honor to affix to my chest. A navy G that safeguarded my worth. Alas, my surroundings have changed but the spark is still within me. Those four years will always be mine. 

I'm still searching and striving, making plans and having faith. There are no syllabi to help guide my path, or grades to provide the affirmation that I seek.  I departed the era of four year concrete compartments with prescribed outcomes and leapt in to the great abyss of adulthood. Maybe this fire that's burning inside is success enough for today, for a lifetime even. Maybe I've been too ignorant to see glimmering proof of this return on investment in the every day. 

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I have for you a treat with a hidden surprise. As we sometimes have trouble seeing the treasure in the simple, here is crumb cake with a twist. Begin with this Crumb cake from Martha Stewart Living, then fold in your favorite fruit preserves before topping with crumbs. Bake according to the recipe and enjoy the sweetness you've been overlooking. 

Pie Crust Cookies and the Other OCD

When I was around eight years old, I sat in the office of my elementary school counselor's office and he told me I was trying to force adult files into my child-sized filing cabinet. While it wasn't a technical explanation or diagnosis, it gave me a greater understanding of what was happening in my head. I could not sort through complicated concepts without obsessing over their implications. I was fixated on nightmarish topics of harm, violence, and imprudence seemingly all the time. Why should an eight year old be burdened with this material, I often wondered. I cried, and cried often. I was longing to make it through the day unimpeded by what was happening in the confines of my mind, but somehow the fear always overcame me. Fear of what could happen to me, what could happen to loved ones, fear of what harm people are capable of. Eventually they called it OCD. Who would have thought? 

Pure obsessional OCD is rather obscure, marked by intrusive imagery and mental obsessions not accompanied by the physical compulsions that shape the understanding most have of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. While the content matter of the thought patterns may vary from person to person, recurring topics of harm, religious blasphemy, loss of control, impropriety, sexuality, and anything that the person finds reprehensible, dirty, or “bad” are common. Like a record on a loop, it plays on and on, anxiety growing with each rotation. The doubt is pervasive. Doubting one's character, intentions, goodness, and worthiness are common. A cloud of irrational fears mercilessly feasts on your vulnerabilities. The song just keeps playing. 

Research shows that pure O is so anxiety provoking because individuals who have the condition are among the least likely to act on the thoughts they experience. These individuals are gentle and kind, which is why the subject matter of intrusions is so repugnant and bothersome. Externally, there are few indicators of Pure Obsessional OCD; it's quite invisible. My mother always tells me I look like I am immersed in thought, my brow furrowed in concern. As a society, we rely on what people reveal about their conditions, and thus much goes undisclosed. I think people rarely talk about Pure O because it is embarrassing and stigmatized. There is a level of shame and guilt associated with having thoughts of this kind. Therapists call it thought-reality fusion, or believing these fleeting thoughts mean you will do something bad, act out, hurt another person. Rest assured, it is an anxiety disorder and not a matter of impulse control. While I cannot speak for all, the way I find solace from the intrusions is with a healthy dose of distraction, physical activity, repetitive mantras, and cognitive behavioral therapy. From experience, I have seen that the worst habit is engaging with or trying to suppress the thoughts; suppression does not readily happen. Tell yourself not to think of something and believe me, it is sure to be the only thing on your mind. 

Sometimes I feel as if I burden those closest to me because I crave reassurance to explain away the dissonance in my mind. I ask if "everything is ok" and I ask them often, embarrassingly often. Sometimes they enable me and answer, yes, that "everything is ok". They see how desperately I need them to say just that. Other times they force me to rely on myself, to embrace the discomfort, to reside with what frightens me most, which in the long run is more helpful. Regardless, I've come to realize that nothing is ever really ok, and that in and of itself, is well, ok.

To Prepare Savory Pie Crust Cookies:

• Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. 
• Prepare one batch of your favorite pie crust. Store-bought works just fine as well. Roll out your crust to roughly 1/4 inch thick. Using your favorite cookie cutters, cut out desired shapes and sizes. Place on a greased cookie sheet.
• Meanwhile, combine 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, 1/4 cup fresh chopped parsley, salt and pepper to taste.
• Brush your pie crust cutouts with egg wash. (I typically beat one egg and combine with 2 tablespoons of water.)
• Gently press cheese and parsley mixture onto each cookie until generously covered. Bake for 12 minutes or until crisp and golden. 
• Serve with a dipping bowl of marinara sauce. 

One Whole Pie

Equity is a concept always prevalent in my mind, but recently moreso. In just this past few months I transitioned from working for the wealthiest of people in the catering industry, to some of the most marginalized - adults with disabilities, in the non-profit sector. I had experiences with young people with intellectual and developmental disabilities as a student participant in Best Buddies at Georgetown University. The individuals I encountered were spirited, engaged, and shared their infectious joy so willingly and without conditions. This change in work would be a welcome one; I was certain I would be well equipped and thrive. 

 I reported to my new position with images from Best Buddies of happiness, inclusion and youth in my mind. I was granted the chance to combine my love of service with my strategic and entrepreneurial skills. This union had been a goal of mine since graduating from a Jesuit institution that instilled a personal urgency to place service well before myself. It was finally coming together. 

My initial reactions were different than I anticipated. There I was arrogantly believing I would have every answer, flourish in my role, and adapt with ease to this new opportunity. I met some of the individuals the organization supports on my first day and had difficulty communicating. I was discouraged. How would I bridge the gap that significant barriers and impairments have placed between us? How can this be fair?  My mind began to wander, panic ensued, and I felt helpness. I was not familiar with atypical behaviors as I hadn't experienced them in abundance before. My ignorance was manifesting as sorrow. I was saddened by what I perceived to be an unfortunate circumstance, to be an adult with multiple disabilities, to be entirely nonverbal, to be deaf as well as blind. I labeled reliance on other people as some sort of tragedy, my own ableist prejudice clouding my vision. As much as I would like to deny that prejudice exists, it does exist. Our society all too often reinforces it; just pick up a magazine or watch the news. Differences are not publicized. Instead we strive for beauty, sameness, and the predictable. Whatever is typical and safe.  From this vantage point, I saw only the negatives and the can'ts. Gone were the images of youthful students participating in activities on Healy Lawn at Georgetown, grilling hamburgers, singing karaoke. This was unlike anything I could have expected. 

In the days that followed, I got immersed in the lives of the individuals we support. I asked for help, figured out how to communicate, and asked endless questions. I read articles, watched publicized talks, consulted my priest, bought books, and interviewed my peers. I extended my hands and opened my heart. I am embarassed to say that for a brief moment my heart, in a well-intentioned fashion, was closing me off to all the possibility in the situation. I learned basic Sign Language, I broadened my understanding of developmental disabilities, intellectual disabilities, and deafblindness, and became educated on how to handle potentially difficult situations.

My unfounded fears became knowledge, my sadness and misguided compassion became power.

People I encountered, my now role models, told me that there is no right or wrong: disability is neutral. We just learn as we go, and help to ensure the best possible outcomes. We embrace that every human being experiences the world in a different way. 

Unrealistically so, I decided in my mind a long time ago I would never be able to work with truly vulnerable people, in nursing homes, shelters, or hospitals. I told myself I was too sensitive, and these experiences would undo me. All along, I was making assumptions about the vulnerable's quality of life. It was not premeditated malice, more likely it was automatic - cultural norms forming the basis of my understanding of the world. This reasoning grounded in emotion was damaging and it skewed my perceptions. I transformed my discomfort with inequity to faith in diversity. I've seen firsthand that sadness is debilitating and helps noone. The same goes for pity. Hope however, hope begets action. Compassion. Compassion sparks change and inspires inclusion.  

I've stopped trying to fix things in my mind. Fixing doesn't readily happen. Through my daily encounters, my belief is affirmed that anything worth truly having would be available to everyone. There are no conditions for fitness or value.  A prestigious job, lavish home, an abundance of friends, self reliance, and beautiful possessions while all appealing are not prerequisites for worthiness. The sum of our things does not equate to worth as human beings. or we would be human havings. Alas, our only requirment is to be. 

We are all equal parts of one societal whole. I conceptualize in food so I am envisioning this abundant pie, bursting with tender apples. We all reside as parts of this pie, slices if you will. No one person is truly self-sufficient, and if we perceive that we are, we are mistaken. It is our interdependence that makes us whole. Not strength, nor power, nor wealth.

I no longer believe that reliance on support is a tragedy. I think reliance enhances our compassion, and broadens our connections as a people.  Together we are an intricate whole. A perfect pie.          

I no longer feel like we deseve a gold star or pats on the back for being decent human beings. I no longer believe in patronizing behavior. While I always knew the individuals I met in Best Buddies were serving me far more than I was serving them, this understanding has been dramatically expanded in light of my recent experiences. Individuals that we all too easily dismiss have taught me these lessons. They have reaffirmed that love is the only currency worth measuring. To me that is true power.  
The most vulnerable among us enable those all too often distracted to see that simply being is enough.

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I have furthered my understanding in writings, talks, and the wisdom of others. Here are some resources I highly recommend...

This book, by a teacher from my high school. I discovered his work through my research, and was overjoyed to make this connection. 

This article, by a woman who has dedicated her life to empowering individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. 

This TedTalk about acknowledging that our speech may stigmatize disability, breed judgment, and divide us.  

If you found any glimmer of truth or comfort in this piece, follow along with our organizational progress here, and to donate to our mission, join us here.  

Anxious

She is a vicious little SOB. Anxiety that is. Unwavering in her pursuit to knock you down and make you feel small. She feasts on your insecurities and takes great joy in breaking you until the web of rushing concepts that used to be your brain is exhausted, irrational and dismayed. At its core, anxiety is fear, or at least I think she is. A fear of something we may not even be able to identify. A fear of not being good enough, a fear of not loving yourself, or not being worthy of others' love. A fear that you're squandering away this one special life that you have been given because your mind is preventing you from any productive action. You're immobilized. A numbing feeling sets in, as if you're broken but not necessarily sure how to remedy said brokenness. 

You want to find the right reassurance, the perfect string of consoling words, a helping hand or some sense of tangible progress. You all too quickly forget that these things are already within you. Still, it's difficult to make peace with the disarray, to dance in the storm, to have patience. The perspective you have, in abundance. "This doesn't feel right. These feelings are not representative of my true sentiments. This isn't how I want to be spending my time." The tears well up in your eyes and you silently count your breaths, willing the sobs to stay away. There are brave souls fighting terminal conditions, children starving, men and women fighting overseas, you say. These are true burdens, to try to remind yourself of perspective. These circumstances warrant tears, and yet the brave endure. Worsening feelings of guilt set in because the absolute logic is no match for your buzzing frenzy of a brain. 

What is wrong with me? I am stronger than this. At times, counting helps; other times it's futile. Someone you love with the best of intentions tells you to "suck it up" or to be tougher. Grow a thicker skin they say. Shake it off. Rationally, you understand, this is not necessary behavior. Emotionally, it is unyielding. The logic falls to the wayside and the feelings of helplessness rush in to fill the voids where your confidence and reasoning should reside. "I'll get you my pretty", she says. Anxiety that is. 

The right combination of reasoning, exercise, eating well, rest, and distraction eventually send her back to reside in her miserable place. She is dormant at least for now, until she decides to feast again on your vulnerabilities. To blow them out of proportion, to grab hold of your mind. To tug you lower. And when she comes next, I will be a little more prepared, unwavering in my pursuit.