“What are you making?” Andy asked, as he walked by me in
the kitchen this morning, carrying his breakfast dishes.
“Cream cheese mints for Vera’s wedding.”
“That’s nice.”
“Not really. I don’t like them.” (My deepest apologies to
all of the wonderful mint-makers whose mints I have been offered and eaten over
the years. The first time I had one, many years ago, I didn’t know what I was
eating, and the texture and the taste weren’t what I was expecting. I’ve never
been able to enjoy them since that first unhappy surprise.)
Husbandly double-take. “Then why are you making them?”
“Because your mother made them for Caroline’s wedding.”
“Ahh. . .”
Grief hits at random times. My most recent visitation of
grief had been in the store while I was ordering Vera’s wedding cake. The store
was cram-packed full of all of the baking minutiae that real bakers (i.e. not
me) desired. Near the cash register was a display of mint-making materials. As
I was waiting for my cake order to be totaled, I suddenly remembered that June
had made mints for Caroline’s wedding. When she had offered to make mints at
the time, I recall being only mildly thrilled (remember, I don’t like the
things), but they truly had added a lovely touch to the reception. Impulsively,
I decided that Vera would have mints for her own wedding, and that I would make
them as an homage to her grandmother.
The wedding-cake lady got me all of the equipment I would
need for my mints, handed me a recipe, and walked me through it. She even gave
me her cell-phone number, in case I needed mint-making advice. A few days
later, I received a similar offer of assistance from an experienced mint maker
in church.
I woke up early this morning and decided that today would
be Mint Day. I had my printed instructions, I remembered some of what I had
been told, and I figured I had it under control. After all, I have a doctorate. Surely I could
follow a recipe and make mints.
It turns out that my doctorate is in ministry, NOT in
mint making, and that there is a huge difference between the two.
I did okay with the instructions until it came time for
molding. It seemed fairly simple. Dust the mold with sugar, take a clump of the
dough, press it into the mold, and pop it out. Repeat 144 times, and you’re
done. No problem, right?
My mints did not pop out of the mold. They were
recalcitrant, introverted mints who did not want to leave the confines of their
mold. I might be able to squidge them out, or splort them out, or smush them
out, but they did not pop out. Once a mint has been squidged, splorted, or
smushed, it bears strikingly little resemblance to the heart or flower shape of
the mold.
I was ready to call for expert advice, but I was thwarted
by the early morning hour. I didn’t want to roust someone out of bed because of
my misshapen mints. I kept soldiering along, trying different methods until
things got better. After the first few dozen, I began to get the hang of it.
Sort of.
It’s the thought that counts, and these mints are in
memory of a loving woman who would have made them herself in heartbeat if she’d
been able. As it is, I only hope that people look at them in muted candlelight,
not close-up.
(And that I don’t have to eat one myself.)
