dianaschnuth

I don’t remember exactly how I came across it, but I found a Facebook group that someone had set up for alumni of my high school band — specifically, people who had been in band in the ’90s. As I graduated in 1994, most of the group wasn’t quite relevant to me, although I did see a few posts from people I knew. Mainly, though, I saw younger siblings of people I’d been in band or choir with, or people who had been in 8th or 9th grade when I was a Senior.

As a general rule, I look back on high school and junior high and only remember the weird ostracism and depression I experienced. Somehow, though, reading through this group’s posts and photos made me remember that it wasn’t all so bad.

Afterward, I went to my own photo albums and scrapbooks for photos to add to the mix, since the early ’90s weren’t so well represented — and happy times hit me smack in the face. All of us band geeks would hang out together before school by the band room, since that’s where our oversized lockers were. We’d also hang out there after school and during lunch, and I have the pictures to prove that we were all enjoying ourselves. All of us. Even me.

Senior year wasn’t a cakewalk. Sure, I had some weird teacher crush on my band director, which hit me square in the face when he got married that winter. Sure, one of my friends got asked out by the guy I’d been crushing on since Freshman year. I definitely did have a massive case of Senioritis. I was also spending so much time on music that I neglected my studies, which led to some very awkward moments in the second half of the school year, culminating with my not participating in the graduation ceremony with my class. But those things don’t have to define how I remember all of high school, or even all of my Senior year.

High school still feels like a completely different life, lived by a completely different person. (Hell, even college feels like that a lot of the time.) But it’s good to be reminded that, while high school wasn’t the Best Years Of My Life like some people claimed it would be, it wasn’t as bad as I tend to remember it.

Diana, Kris, Mark, and Aaron pose in the parking lot after the Dirtbombs show on 21 September 2002, at the Magic Stick in Detroit. We sat the camera — whose was it? — on the roof of the car, set the timer, and posed together behind the back bumper.

Diana and Aaron are both at maximum girth (and still engaged), Mark is younger and skinnier, and Kris… well, he’s just Kris. At least some things never change.

(Incidentally? I officially started blogging the day after this photo was taken.)

Earlier this evening, I posted to Twitter:

Busting out my DVD of Christmas on Sesame Street and preparing to make the annual sausage cake. Yes, there’s really sausage in it.

Aw, Mr. Hooper! This is making me cry already. Not good. BTW, Big Bird ice skates about as well as I do.

Now, sausage cake is a regular Christmas tradition (whether I’m dieting or not), but I hadn’t seen Christmas Eve on Sesame Street in years and years. So, when I decided to combine the two into a new yuletide tradition, I hadn’t counted on the fact that Sesame Street would make me bawl.

I’m not sure why this happens. Maybe my 32-year-old heart just can’t handle remembering what it felt like to be a wondering little four-year-old. When something hits me just right, though, like this DVD bringing back those memories of curling up with Mom and Memaw, watching my favorite Christmas specials by the flicker of pillar candles — I just lose it. I used to be such a rock, too.

Anyway, between wondering whether kids these days know that there really was a Mr. Hooper, and realizing that David really was pretty cute, and signing (and singing) along with Keep Christmas With You, I actually did manage to make some sausage cake.

I mentioned yesterday on Facebook that I’d be making sausage cake soon. Some of the responses:

Barb: sausage cake?

Me: it’s a family tradition! it’s like a spice cake, with raisins and cinnamon, but with sausage and chuck in the mix. supposed to be an old welsh recipe.

Manh: sausage cake?, i was thinkin’ the same thing

Barb: Hmmm, sounds interesting but I think I’ll pass…

Jess: I don’t know about sausage cake… is it greasy or do you brown and rinse the meat prior to adding to the cake?

As I’ve mentioned before, the sausage cake is a Cook family holiday tradition. Since I’m sworn to secrecy about the recipe, I can’t share with you all the gory details, but there are some parts of the baking that really hark back to my childhood, like mixing the ingredients with my hands (see above). It looks gross, but it’s the perfect job for little hands, and it brings back great, giggly memories.

There are other parts that my mom used to do that make me feel grown-up now, like making the brown sugar topping. It’s kind of a candymaking sort of affair, and it takes a strong arm to beat the syrup as it cools. It’s also a challenge to pour the topping on the cakes before it hardens. I remember watching Mom making this when I was a child, standing nearby and smelling the spices and listening to the sound of the brown sugar syrup as it crackled and cooled.

I wonder if any of my more distant cousins on Grandpa Cook’s side of the family make this recipe every year? I wonder if they have memories of it like I do? Wouldn’t it be neat if I met or wrote to my cousins someday, and we had this in common?

I wonder how far back this recipe goes…?

The coffee shop where we had our first date is now a Mexican restaurant. The local restaurant where we had a delicious lobster and prime rib dinner the night Aaron proposed is now a different, franchised restaurant.

I hope nothing happens to Prout Chapel, where we got married. Maybe we should start celebrating milestones in places we don’t have any intention of going again…

(Side note: I should probably scan and post some of our wedding photos from 2003 to my Flickr; it’s been long enough that I’m sure our photographer wouldn’t mind. Too much.)