Color me, and call me a Rainbow
By Gianna Cardenas
“You feeling blue?” Was a common phrase I’d heard throughout my life, whether that be to me or someone I’d know, It was said to me when I hadn’t left my room in two days, or after a particularly grueling game lost. Blue was something I had-for an unknown reason-quickly associated with sadness, it was dark and deep, blue that swallowed you whole, you sunk into it. It was felt often-the dark blue- sometimes for days engraved into the four walls I stayed in or washed away within seconds like footprints on the quiet beach in a quiet town. The deep, dark, blue that was coincidentally, the same color that stained my club jersey-I tried not to think too much about that. It wasn’t harsh, sometimes suffocating but never something I had intentionally fallen into. It wasn’t always a dark azure that clung to you and never let go, sometimes it was soft, slowly coloring and washing over me the same way the tides do the sandy shore, it felt the same way melancholy and singularity. Blue was walking at in the middle of starry night skies after sneaking out at 3 am with friends, blue was the police cars showing up at my house twenty minutes to late, it was saying goodbye to a friendship of years in the making, and it the soft sound of the lofi playlist I listen to that makes the world stop spinning. It was dark and never ending and soft and comforting all at once.
Soft and quiet blues soon turned into seething reds, blaring and loud, demanding a sort of attention that I could never give. Red in all its glory was the seething feeling that sunk into my skin after arguments, it was boiling beneath my skin like lava. Red was the color of Mom’s lipstick and it was the same color as heartache. It was warm and comforting the core of the campfire that embers still glowed, it was fireworks, and the passion I felt. Red was the embarrassment that rose and made my cheeks hotter than even the hottest heatwave. It was also the anemia pills that made my stomach sick and the school days left early because of it. The color of raised skin after scratching at bug bites that drew blood- I still get yelled at for picking at them to this day but the itch they give is one never sated. Red in all its glory was a never ending combination of the passion, love, anger, embarrassment and everything else felt.
If red was like a wildfire, spreading fast and taking over every inch there ever was to take, never sparing and conquering everything it touched and setting it aflame. It’s only obvious that flames can’t burn forever and from rubble the green roots and stems buried for so long flourish and flow freely.. Green was flowing freely connecting everything and everyone, roots that spread far and wide in every direction, a highway that was only getting more complex as I grew, it was the connections I made. It was the sickness that clawed at my throat and ripped out my lungs, green was the monster that clung to you and never let go, it would grow and fester, it was greed, and envy. It was the ugly monster that reared its head when other kids talked about their Fathers, or their new toys, or the vacations the family went- the things they could afford.But it was also the same color as the grass I layed and rolled in for hours and the eucalyptus scent that covered my house as a kid and still does, it was moms salt baths favorite scent and the stress relief that she’d spray in my room when I was having too rough of a time and too stubborn to admit it.
Alas forest greens conspired and swirled into softer hues and tinted yellow shades, no longer vines that twisted and growed but now the blinding sunlight that allowed such. Yellow was comforting, it was soft smiles sent by friends and laughing till my stomach hurt listening to jokes that never made sense, it was my raggedy old teddy bear I slept with for years but could never name. It was the same shade of yellow as the dandelions in the front yard I’d make flower crowns from, and paled in comparison to the soaking yellow raincoat I wore in the rainy season. It was the steam I saw wafting through the air after a fresh pot of pozole was made, one that no matter how big wouldn’t last a day. The same tinge as the bandaids I was covered in as a kid. Yellow an ongoing joke I hated as a kid; it was never a favorite color and every year without fail when my soccer jersey was handed out it was the same nasty neon color that I told my mom made my skin look to dark.(Child me was much more insecure about my skin color than me now). Yellow was also the electricity that buzzed under my skin, the same one that drew goosebumps on my body, and made my hands, my legs, my arms, and my fingers shake every second of every minute of the day. The electricity that made me talk and talk and talk, forgetting the point but not being able to quit the words coming out of my mouth or the million and one thoughts buzzing around in my head. It was also serendipitys and epiphanies, poetic words stemming from the buzz of lightning that crackled in my veins.
As soft yellows shifted into oranges, shining suns became blazing sunsets, the memories tied with them melded into another existence entirely, orange was another component of another part of what feels like another life entirely. Because orange was the warmth I basked in when the sky was as pretty as a painted mural.The same as soft smiles and even softer touches, it was neon glow sticks on halloween, the candied corn I’d throw at snotty brothers. Orange was sunkissed skin after beach days, and the afterglow that followed me and my team after a good game won. It’s the shade of the salt lamp in my room that glows every night. It was the fine details on the club jersey stuffed far back into my closet. It was the transparency of those pill bottles that filled the draws for anemia and some filled with claritin when my allergies clogged my nose and clouded my vision. The main tint that coated the skys on evening afternoons when the sun was soon to sleep. It was the euphoria I experienced oh so rarely but well cherished when it was.
Yellow and Purple were parallels, opposites on the color scale and opposites in the feelings I felt were divided by an ocean. Purple was Mom’s favorite color, it was the beginning of all her passwords and the main component of her closet. The color of the sheets I wiggled and wormed my way into when my dreams went from lavender to a darkened violet. It was my favorite plant in the school's gardens and the jolly ranchers I’d steal from the candy jar at Mom’s old shop. It was the color that painted my skin when me and my brothers hit too roughly and ten shades darker on my knees and hips after grueling practices spent thrown out on the hardwood floor. Only to get back up and be told to try harder. Purple was the chamomile tea with honey I drank every night for months straight when my insomnia got too bad and the same shade was the eyebags I had to match. It was the color written under every “Favorite Color?” question asked as a child-Because obviously if it was my Moms favorite it was mine too.
Gray wasn’t pretty, not a blush pink or cerulean blue, although now it’s the same shade as my curtains, bedding and the shiny silk pillowcase I sleep on every night. A shade that covered gloomy clouds that were on the verge of crying on my Aunt’s funeral, and the color of the smoke that flew from dying lungs and trampled cigarette buds thrown outside.Gray was suffocating, not like blue, it wasn’t something that I sunk into, it was the pit I felt in my stomach when my anxiety got bad. It was a sudden drop and then nothing at all, it wasn’t a feeling, it was numbness and nothing. Gray was also the monotone tinge that frequented on rainy days, it was petrichor and muddied boots that ran back and forth and soaked asphalt. It wasn’t all bad and It wasn’t all that great either, after all there was something oddly comforting about experiencing nothing at all, burnt out from viscous vindictiveness, everlasting envy, and heated heartache. But that was soothed with earl gray tea on the highest gray shelf in the gray stained cabinet, a dollop of honey along with it to feel something sweet. Gray was the lack of sensation that came after feeling so much, underneath the viscous red and gnarly purple and sickening greens it layed silent, too quiet to distinguish whether it was real at all. I was a blank, gray, monotone slate every morning waking up with a new color pressed into skin by emotions I couldn’t remember and wouldn’t try to comprehend.
So paint me, color me in and call me a rainbow, with my lovely reds, sun-set oranges, dandelion yellows and my envy inducing forest greens, a rainbow with bone-chilling blues and viscous purples. So color me, and call me rainbow, and please don’t ask me “Are you feeling blue?” because I don’t feel blue If I can’t feel the reds and greens that come along with it. Underneath even those pretty colors that painted me and made me blue, were a thousand more shades and a thousand more hues of tones I couldn’t begin to name. So don’t call me blue, not when I’ll never be able to be anything less or anything more than the kaleidoscope of colors that made me a thousand times more complex than just the blue I sometimes let you see.
“You feeling blue?” Was a common phrase I’d heard throughout my life, whether that be to me or someone I’d know, It was said to me when I hadn’t left my room in two days, or after a particularly grueling game lost. Blue was something I had-for an unknown reason-quickly associated with sadness, it was dark and deep, blue that swallowed you whole, you sunk into it. It was felt often-the dark blue- sometimes for days engraved into the four walls I stayed in or washed away within seconds like footprints on the quiet beach in a quiet town. The deep, dark, blue that was coincidentally, the same color that stained my club jersey-I tried not to think too much about that. It wasn’t harsh, sometimes suffocating but never something I had intentionally fallen into. It wasn’t always a dark azure that clung to you and never let go, sometimes it was soft, slowly coloring and washing over me the same way the tides do the sandy shore, it felt the same way melancholy and singularity. Blue was walking at in the middle of starry night skies after sneaking out at 3 am with friends, blue was the police cars showing up at my house twenty minutes to late, it was saying goodbye to a friendship of years in the making, and it the soft sound of the lofi playlist I listen to that makes the world stop spinning. It was dark and never ending and soft and comforting all at once.
Soft and quiet blues soon turned into seething reds, blaring and loud, demanding a sort of attention that I could never give. Red in all its glory was the seething feeling that sunk into my skin after arguments, it was boiling beneath my skin like lava. Red was the color of Mom’s lipstick and it was the same color as heartache. It was warm and comforting the core of the campfire that embers still glowed, it was fireworks, and the passion I felt. Red was the embarrassment that rose and made my cheeks hotter than even the hottest heatwave. It was also the anemia pills that made my stomach sick and the school days left early because of it. The color of raised skin after scratching at bug bites that drew blood- I still get yelled at for picking at them to this day but the itch they give is one never sated. Red in all its glory was a never ending combination of the passion, love, anger, embarrassment and everything else felt.
If red was like a wildfire, spreading fast and taking over every inch there ever was to take, never sparing and conquering everything it touched and setting it aflame. It’s only obvious that flames can’t burn forever and from rubble the green roots and stems buried for so long flourish and flow freely.. Green was flowing freely connecting everything and everyone, roots that spread far and wide in every direction, a highway that was only getting more complex as I grew, it was the connections I made. It was the sickness that clawed at my throat and ripped out my lungs, green was the monster that clung to you and never let go, it would grow and fester, it was greed, and envy. It was the ugly monster that reared its head when other kids talked about their Fathers, or their new toys, or the vacations the family went- the things they could afford.But it was also the same color as the grass I layed and rolled in for hours and the eucalyptus scent that covered my house as a kid and still does, it was moms salt baths favorite scent and the stress relief that she’d spray in my room when I was having too rough of a time and too stubborn to admit it.
Alas forest greens conspired and swirled into softer hues and tinted yellow shades, no longer vines that twisted and growed but now the blinding sunlight that allowed such. Yellow was comforting, it was soft smiles sent by friends and laughing till my stomach hurt listening to jokes that never made sense, it was my raggedy old teddy bear I slept with for years but could never name. It was the same shade of yellow as the dandelions in the front yard I’d make flower crowns from, and paled in comparison to the soaking yellow raincoat I wore in the rainy season. It was the steam I saw wafting through the air after a fresh pot of pozole was made, one that no matter how big wouldn’t last a day. The same tinge as the bandaids I was covered in as a kid. Yellow an ongoing joke I hated as a kid; it was never a favorite color and every year without fail when my soccer jersey was handed out it was the same nasty neon color that I told my mom made my skin look to dark.(Child me was much more insecure about my skin color than me now). Yellow was also the electricity that buzzed under my skin, the same one that drew goosebumps on my body, and made my hands, my legs, my arms, and my fingers shake every second of every minute of the day. The electricity that made me talk and talk and talk, forgetting the point but not being able to quit the words coming out of my mouth or the million and one thoughts buzzing around in my head. It was also serendipitys and epiphanies, poetic words stemming from the buzz of lightning that crackled in my veins.
As soft yellows shifted into oranges, shining suns became blazing sunsets, the memories tied with them melded into another existence entirely, orange was another component of another part of what feels like another life entirely. Because orange was the warmth I basked in when the sky was as pretty as a painted mural.The same as soft smiles and even softer touches, it was neon glow sticks on halloween, the candied corn I’d throw at snotty brothers. Orange was sunkissed skin after beach days, and the afterglow that followed me and my team after a good game won. It’s the shade of the salt lamp in my room that glows every night. It was the fine details on the club jersey stuffed far back into my closet. It was the transparency of those pill bottles that filled the draws for anemia and some filled with claritin when my allergies clogged my nose and clouded my vision. The main tint that coated the skys on evening afternoons when the sun was soon to sleep. It was the euphoria I experienced oh so rarely but well cherished when it was.
Yellow and Purple were parallels, opposites on the color scale and opposites in the feelings I felt were divided by an ocean. Purple was Mom’s favorite color, it was the beginning of all her passwords and the main component of her closet. The color of the sheets I wiggled and wormed my way into when my dreams went from lavender to a darkened violet. It was my favorite plant in the school's gardens and the jolly ranchers I’d steal from the candy jar at Mom’s old shop. It was the color that painted my skin when me and my brothers hit too roughly and ten shades darker on my knees and hips after grueling practices spent thrown out on the hardwood floor. Only to get back up and be told to try harder. Purple was the chamomile tea with honey I drank every night for months straight when my insomnia got too bad and the same shade was the eyebags I had to match. It was the color written under every “Favorite Color?” question asked as a child-Because obviously if it was my Moms favorite it was mine too.
Gray wasn’t pretty, not a blush pink or cerulean blue, although now it’s the same shade as my curtains, bedding and the shiny silk pillowcase I sleep on every night. A shade that covered gloomy clouds that were on the verge of crying on my Aunt’s funeral, and the color of the smoke that flew from dying lungs and trampled cigarette buds thrown outside.Gray was suffocating, not like blue, it wasn’t something that I sunk into, it was the pit I felt in my stomach when my anxiety got bad. It was a sudden drop and then nothing at all, it wasn’t a feeling, it was numbness and nothing. Gray was also the monotone tinge that frequented on rainy days, it was petrichor and muddied boots that ran back and forth and soaked asphalt. It wasn’t all bad and It wasn’t all that great either, after all there was something oddly comforting about experiencing nothing at all, burnt out from viscous vindictiveness, everlasting envy, and heated heartache. But that was soothed with earl gray tea on the highest gray shelf in the gray stained cabinet, a dollop of honey along with it to feel something sweet. Gray was the lack of sensation that came after feeling so much, underneath the viscous red and gnarly purple and sickening greens it layed silent, too quiet to distinguish whether it was real at all. I was a blank, gray, monotone slate every morning waking up with a new color pressed into skin by emotions I couldn’t remember and wouldn’t try to comprehend.
So paint me, color me in and call me a rainbow, with my lovely reds, sun-set oranges, dandelion yellows and my envy inducing forest greens, a rainbow with bone-chilling blues and viscous purples. So color me, and call me rainbow, and please don’t ask me “Are you feeling blue?” because I don’t feel blue If I can’t feel the reds and greens that come along with it. Underneath even those pretty colors that painted me and made me blue, were a thousand more shades and a thousand more hues of tones I couldn’t begin to name. So don’t call me blue, not when I’ll never be able to be anything less or anything more than the kaleidoscope of colors that made me a thousand times more complex than just the blue I sometimes let you see.
Gianna Cardenas- A fashion fanatic, feminist, literature lover, older responsible- no matter what my mom says- sister and a typical artist. Is a perpetual meme user and music enthusiast, can probably be found stuck in a small corner listening to music or investing- too much- time in a new show; or spending all her money online shopping-because COVID duh. Enjoys cool winter mornings wrapped in warm blankets and sipping steaming hot chocolate, the same white Filas she wears religiously, and midnight walks she shouldn’t be-definitely isn't- allowed to go on. Probably won’t be seen anywhere NEAR neon pink, or cats; for my own safety, sadly, I wish I wasn’t allergic- and most likely still hates vegetables, and things thrown out of place. Values equality, friendship, and anime. Is inspired by the fantastic people she aspires to be like someday, and the confidence they have. And Gianna Cardenas is completely overwhelmed with the support pillars that are the ones she loves, and the somewhat annoying best friend sending a constant stream of TikTok’s she thinks she’ll like.
Pain
By Jasmine St. Felix
A treacherous thunderstorm in my brain
Replaying in my head
Driving me insane
Pain
Mistakes I feel ashamed
Don't do everything people do
Known as irrelevant and lame
Pain
It pours when it rains
A cry I can’t maintain
Focused on the target
The devil had me broken
Shattered I never mattered
Eat my emotions away
Prey that I can be happier
Pain
I lost it
Mentality out the door
I'd rather be on the floor
Get away from society
Nothing less, nevermore
Replaying in my head
Driving me insane
Pain
Mistakes I feel ashamed
Don't do everything people do
Known as irrelevant and lame
Pain
It pours when it rains
A cry I can’t maintain
Focused on the target
The devil had me broken
Shattered I never mattered
Eat my emotions away
Prey that I can be happier
Pain
I lost it
Mentality out the door
I'd rather be on the floor
Get away from society
Nothing less, nevermore
Jasmine St. Felix: From Virginia Beach, moved to Washington State then straight to Cali. Hepburn and Monroe classy, opposite of renege, book reader fanatic. Most likely to be independent, self disciplined and doing my own thing. Enjoys reading, writing poetry and watching documentaries. probably won’t rush everything and not take my time with certain things. Really hates the desperate attention- seekers, lowkey, this generation. Values my worth, poetry and my mind. Is inspired by my family, dad, and my stepmom. Is overwhelmed when people act too extra and chaotic, when everybody humps on a wave that you have been on since day one, and last but not least -- with this generation.
My Cheesecake Died, But I Ate It Anyway
By Matthew Steed
Just as a hobby, I love to cook. Particularly though, I love to make dessert. I could think of some obscure philosophical reason why I enjoy cooking, something like creative fulfillment, but really, I just like to eat dessert. And one of my favorite desserts is cheesecake.
Cheesecake is not only delicious, but it is purely entertaining to make. There are all kinds of tips and tricks I have learned along the way from recipes online and from my own trial and error. So, I was quite excited when I decided to make a very intriguing cheesecake recipe one fateful day towards the end of this past summer.
I had scoured Pinterest and the internet for the ideal cheesecake that had both flavor and uniqueness. I finally found the perfect one: A turtle cheesecake. No, not a cheesecake with turtle in it, and not one shaped like a turtle either. A graham cracker-nut crust, a layer of homemade nutty caramel sauce, a ribbon of rich chocolate, a thick layer of brown sugar cheesecake, all topped with more caramel sauce and a chocolate drizzle. The picture looked amazing.
It was time to begin, but first I had to jump through a few hoops. I got out the springform pan, and prepared it with wax paper. Most people do this to keep the cheesecake from sticking to the pan, but I did it because my pan was peeling apart. My parents had it since they were married, and it had not aged well. The shiny coating was bubbling and peeling, and I was afraid to eat shards of weird metallic plastic in my cheesecake. So wax paper to the rescue! Additionally, it was already afternoon when I started, and cheesecakes take hours to make because of their long cooldown period. I knew it would take a while, but decided that it would be worth a late night. And I was impatient to eat such an amazing dessert!
I easily formed the crust in the pan, and got to work on the caramel sauce. It didn’t take long to realize, however, that I did not have the necessary amount of cream. Luckily, my mom was at the store and willing to pick some cream up. Unluckily, she was really late. I wasn’t too upset though, I knew I’d be able to get it done.
Now that I had the cream, I could continue the caramel sauce. I had made caramel before, but I was not expecting what the recipe said next. It required me to put plain table sugar in a sauce pan and just melt it. I had never done that before! Luckily, I knew how to follow a recipe, and I was able to finish the caramel. I would later find a blister on the center of my right hand, presumably from a mysterious attack by a piece of sugar, that lasted for days.
The chocolate layer was easy. Just chocolate chips and hot cream. I could finally start the main attraction: the cheesecake layer. It was pretty simple as well. The recipe asked for brown sugar instead of the normal white sugar, but it was a quick change. Into the springform pan the batter went.
Now, the fatal mistake: The water bath. Many cheesecake recipes recommend wrapping the cheesecake pan in tin foil and placing it in a larger pan with water. Supposedly, this keeps the cheesecake from cracking during the cooking process. I had tried this before on a past cheesecake, and it was a nightmare. The water got through the tin foil somehow and totally soggified the cheesecake. I did not want to make that mistake again. So, after some quick research, I learned the technique of wrapping the pan in a water proof, oven proof, poultry bag. This would in theory keep the water out and the cheesecake dry. I was thoroughly excited to find just the kind of bag I was looking for in my pantry. I wrapped up the springform pan, covered the sides in foil, placed it in a pan of water, and delicately carried the precious cargo into the oven.
How long to set the timer for? One hour and thirty-five minutes. That's a long time, and it was already getting late. I probably could have gone to bed, but nobody wants to accidentally wake up to a cheesecake that's been cooked for ten hours straight. So I waited. But then some more bad news. I looked at the recipe, and I realized that hidden in the following paragraphs was another hour of cooling time involving the cheesecake still in the oven. I didn’t want to leave it in the oven, even if the oven was off. So I kept waiting. One happy surprise though was that my mom allowed my siblings to stay up and watch TV with me while I waited. That helped pass the time.
And finally, it was done. I had taken it out a little early because as time went on, I began to care less and less if too rapid of a cooldown would crack the top. Happily, the cheesecake looked great! Any cracks would be easily overshadowed by the future onslaught of chocolate and caramel that I had planned for this delicious looking dessert. I quickly took it out of the water bath because after the trauma of the soggy cheesecake, I didn’t want this cheesecake to stay submerged for any longer than necessary. I easily tore off the brittle tin foil. And then I noticed the bag...
The ostensibly impenetrable waterproof, oven safe poultry bag was filled with tiny beads of water. I feared the worst. I removed the bag, and to my utter horror, the spring form pan was dripping. One of the cheesecakes I had made in the past involved a makeshift crust that I added too much butter to. After coming out of the oven, liquid leaked out of the pan. It turned out to be the extra butter melting out of the crust. This was my hope as I stared down at my poor cheesecake.
When you make cheesecake, a proper cooldown is imperative. You should leave it in the pan to cool for at least some time. I knew this, but I desperately needed to know the fate of my cheesecake that I had labored so long and hard for. I detached the sides of the springform pan. And, sure enough, what sat before me in its soggy glory was a delicious looking top half of a cheesecake juxtaposed with a mushy bottom half of a cheesecake, covered in a crust a shade of brown darker than the rest. There was a lot going through my head at that moment.
One thing that comes to mind is “That stupid turkey bag lied to me!!” Most people just use tin foil, and their cheesecake turns out fine. I used tin foil and a bag that is literally meant for boiling hot turkey juice! And it was almost midnight. The recipe calls for me to refrigerate it for 5-6 hours. I had given up on being able to eat it that night.
I poured the rest of the caramel sauce on top, and figured that I could add the finishing chocolate the next day. Then I went to bed. My mind swarmed me with the thought of my cheesecake. “I ate a soggy cheesecake before. It's not the end of the world. Maybe I can fix it? No, it’s too late. What if I soak up the water?” Then I had a brilliant idea.
The bottom part of the springform pan was still on the cheesecake. If I could separate the cheesecake from that piece of the pan, I could leave the whole cake on a bed of paper towels that could soak up the extra water. Crisis averted. I made a fluffy bed of paper towels for my infirm cheesecake and ever so carefully lifted the cake up to perform the procedure. With the delicate maneuvers of a brain surgeon, I ever so gently slid the still warm cheesecake off the metal disk it rested upon. And then the surgery went wrong.
My beautiful cheesecake’s side instantly split open, spewing its hot innards out of its feeble body. I watched helplessly as my new friend sat upon his bed off paper towels, his life force quickly fleeing away. It was just me and him, in the dark hours of the night, as I watched his once smooth face form deep crevices slowly inching their way across his body. Seconds later, he was gone. My cheesecake was dead.
It was horrible. And to add to my humiliation, my brother came out to see the scene of carnage left in the wake of my cheesecake’s death. I tried to keep a smile on as I explained what happened, and he laughingly helped me carry it to the fridge to cool. I went to bed well past midnight.
The next day, I checked the fridge. The deep chasms that started forming in the cheesecake the night before had evidently continued to wreak havoc during the night, and a large, angular chunk was sinking off into the sea of solidified caramel and chocolate, like a glacier inching its way across a lava flow. I carried the mess back into my kitchen, and got my parents’ attention. They were quite amused at the grossly misshapen mass that sat on my counter. I knew there was no point in holding grudges against turkey bags or cheesecakes, so I let myself join in the laughter. Needless to say, we ate cheesecake for breakfast that day.
I also swallowed my pride. My poor cheesecake odyssey taught me a lot about myself. It gave me insight on how to deal with unexpected disappointment. It taught me about problem solving, and when to stop before you go too far. Most importantly, I learned how important it is to keep a good attitude when everything is falling apart. My cheesecake suffered a painful and ugly death, but to me, the important thing was that I ate it anyway.
If you think you can do better than me:
https://www.lifeloveandsugar.com/turtle-cheesecake/print/34743/
Cheesecake is not only delicious, but it is purely entertaining to make. There are all kinds of tips and tricks I have learned along the way from recipes online and from my own trial and error. So, I was quite excited when I decided to make a very intriguing cheesecake recipe one fateful day towards the end of this past summer.
I had scoured Pinterest and the internet for the ideal cheesecake that had both flavor and uniqueness. I finally found the perfect one: A turtle cheesecake. No, not a cheesecake with turtle in it, and not one shaped like a turtle either. A graham cracker-nut crust, a layer of homemade nutty caramel sauce, a ribbon of rich chocolate, a thick layer of brown sugar cheesecake, all topped with more caramel sauce and a chocolate drizzle. The picture looked amazing.
It was time to begin, but first I had to jump through a few hoops. I got out the springform pan, and prepared it with wax paper. Most people do this to keep the cheesecake from sticking to the pan, but I did it because my pan was peeling apart. My parents had it since they were married, and it had not aged well. The shiny coating was bubbling and peeling, and I was afraid to eat shards of weird metallic plastic in my cheesecake. So wax paper to the rescue! Additionally, it was already afternoon when I started, and cheesecakes take hours to make because of their long cooldown period. I knew it would take a while, but decided that it would be worth a late night. And I was impatient to eat such an amazing dessert!
I easily formed the crust in the pan, and got to work on the caramel sauce. It didn’t take long to realize, however, that I did not have the necessary amount of cream. Luckily, my mom was at the store and willing to pick some cream up. Unluckily, she was really late. I wasn’t too upset though, I knew I’d be able to get it done.
Now that I had the cream, I could continue the caramel sauce. I had made caramel before, but I was not expecting what the recipe said next. It required me to put plain table sugar in a sauce pan and just melt it. I had never done that before! Luckily, I knew how to follow a recipe, and I was able to finish the caramel. I would later find a blister on the center of my right hand, presumably from a mysterious attack by a piece of sugar, that lasted for days.
The chocolate layer was easy. Just chocolate chips and hot cream. I could finally start the main attraction: the cheesecake layer. It was pretty simple as well. The recipe asked for brown sugar instead of the normal white sugar, but it was a quick change. Into the springform pan the batter went.
Now, the fatal mistake: The water bath. Many cheesecake recipes recommend wrapping the cheesecake pan in tin foil and placing it in a larger pan with water. Supposedly, this keeps the cheesecake from cracking during the cooking process. I had tried this before on a past cheesecake, and it was a nightmare. The water got through the tin foil somehow and totally soggified the cheesecake. I did not want to make that mistake again. So, after some quick research, I learned the technique of wrapping the pan in a water proof, oven proof, poultry bag. This would in theory keep the water out and the cheesecake dry. I was thoroughly excited to find just the kind of bag I was looking for in my pantry. I wrapped up the springform pan, covered the sides in foil, placed it in a pan of water, and delicately carried the precious cargo into the oven.
How long to set the timer for? One hour and thirty-five minutes. That's a long time, and it was already getting late. I probably could have gone to bed, but nobody wants to accidentally wake up to a cheesecake that's been cooked for ten hours straight. So I waited. But then some more bad news. I looked at the recipe, and I realized that hidden in the following paragraphs was another hour of cooling time involving the cheesecake still in the oven. I didn’t want to leave it in the oven, even if the oven was off. So I kept waiting. One happy surprise though was that my mom allowed my siblings to stay up and watch TV with me while I waited. That helped pass the time.
And finally, it was done. I had taken it out a little early because as time went on, I began to care less and less if too rapid of a cooldown would crack the top. Happily, the cheesecake looked great! Any cracks would be easily overshadowed by the future onslaught of chocolate and caramel that I had planned for this delicious looking dessert. I quickly took it out of the water bath because after the trauma of the soggy cheesecake, I didn’t want this cheesecake to stay submerged for any longer than necessary. I easily tore off the brittle tin foil. And then I noticed the bag...
The ostensibly impenetrable waterproof, oven safe poultry bag was filled with tiny beads of water. I feared the worst. I removed the bag, and to my utter horror, the spring form pan was dripping. One of the cheesecakes I had made in the past involved a makeshift crust that I added too much butter to. After coming out of the oven, liquid leaked out of the pan. It turned out to be the extra butter melting out of the crust. This was my hope as I stared down at my poor cheesecake.
When you make cheesecake, a proper cooldown is imperative. You should leave it in the pan to cool for at least some time. I knew this, but I desperately needed to know the fate of my cheesecake that I had labored so long and hard for. I detached the sides of the springform pan. And, sure enough, what sat before me in its soggy glory was a delicious looking top half of a cheesecake juxtaposed with a mushy bottom half of a cheesecake, covered in a crust a shade of brown darker than the rest. There was a lot going through my head at that moment.
One thing that comes to mind is “That stupid turkey bag lied to me!!” Most people just use tin foil, and their cheesecake turns out fine. I used tin foil and a bag that is literally meant for boiling hot turkey juice! And it was almost midnight. The recipe calls for me to refrigerate it for 5-6 hours. I had given up on being able to eat it that night.
I poured the rest of the caramel sauce on top, and figured that I could add the finishing chocolate the next day. Then I went to bed. My mind swarmed me with the thought of my cheesecake. “I ate a soggy cheesecake before. It's not the end of the world. Maybe I can fix it? No, it’s too late. What if I soak up the water?” Then I had a brilliant idea.
The bottom part of the springform pan was still on the cheesecake. If I could separate the cheesecake from that piece of the pan, I could leave the whole cake on a bed of paper towels that could soak up the extra water. Crisis averted. I made a fluffy bed of paper towels for my infirm cheesecake and ever so carefully lifted the cake up to perform the procedure. With the delicate maneuvers of a brain surgeon, I ever so gently slid the still warm cheesecake off the metal disk it rested upon. And then the surgery went wrong.
My beautiful cheesecake’s side instantly split open, spewing its hot innards out of its feeble body. I watched helplessly as my new friend sat upon his bed off paper towels, his life force quickly fleeing away. It was just me and him, in the dark hours of the night, as I watched his once smooth face form deep crevices slowly inching their way across his body. Seconds later, he was gone. My cheesecake was dead.
It was horrible. And to add to my humiliation, my brother came out to see the scene of carnage left in the wake of my cheesecake’s death. I tried to keep a smile on as I explained what happened, and he laughingly helped me carry it to the fridge to cool. I went to bed well past midnight.
The next day, I checked the fridge. The deep chasms that started forming in the cheesecake the night before had evidently continued to wreak havoc during the night, and a large, angular chunk was sinking off into the sea of solidified caramel and chocolate, like a glacier inching its way across a lava flow. I carried the mess back into my kitchen, and got my parents’ attention. They were quite amused at the grossly misshapen mass that sat on my counter. I knew there was no point in holding grudges against turkey bags or cheesecakes, so I let myself join in the laughter. Needless to say, we ate cheesecake for breakfast that day.
I also swallowed my pride. My poor cheesecake odyssey taught me a lot about myself. It gave me insight on how to deal with unexpected disappointment. It taught me about problem solving, and when to stop before you go too far. Most importantly, I learned how important it is to keep a good attitude when everything is falling apart. My cheesecake suffered a painful and ugly death, but to me, the important thing was that I ate it anyway.
If you think you can do better than me:
https://www.lifeloveandsugar.com/turtle-cheesecake/print/34743/
Matthew Steed -- A student, musician, inventor, buffet-lover, and big brother; Is a perpetual perfectionist and patron of overcomplification; Will most likely be found trying yet another random hobby; Enjoys music, rainstorms, and sitting down to read a good book; Probably won’t ever be found at any late night raving party; Most likely still hates ketchup and mustard and sometimes mayonnaise; Values family, education, and most importantly, his religion; Is inspired by light and nature and others’ great ideas; Is completely overwhelmed with curiosity and aspirations.
