Checks and Balances

I love accounting for assets appropriately. For larger accounts and ones that vary with an index, rate or time, I'm happy if I have a good idea of balances, within 5%-10%. One of my pet dislikes is large dollar amounts with two decimals, reflecting a level of accuracy that does not exist. Conversely, I like to see a household checking account with many transactions balanced to the penny.

Bob balanced our checking account for many years, according to a formula that included an unrecorded credit of several hundred dollars, such that he was comfortable as long as his record and the bank's "balanced" within $200-$400. I was eager to change this when I retired and immediately started watching the checking account every day, with the objective of determining the exact amount of the discrepancy. After noting a constant discrepancy from day to day, I adjusted our checkbook balance and began to take pride in the fact that we had a perfect record of the balance every day.

 Bob likes to maintain a manual register, so I had to reacquaint myself with the art of mental addition and subtraction, or use scratch sheets when necessary so that an accurate balance would always show in the check register. About once a week, I balance with the bank and my simple Excel checkbook register. On Wednesday, I congratulated myself after a particularly satisfying balancing session. Perfect, because my knowledge of pending transactions was perfect.

Yesterday I couldn't find the checkbook. I checked everywhere I had been the day before, emptied my purse, picked through the trash and recycling, emptied dining room buffet drawers, returned four times to check the desk Bob and I share. This went on for several hours, and I soon felt like a total incompetent. A hot, sweaty, frustrated and cranky incompetent.

In desperation, I prayed to St. Anthony and promised $10 for the pain de Saint Antoine if I found the checkbook. I immediately felt at peace and knew that I could easily recreate the check register from my e-record. Since I was quite sure that the checkbook hadn't left the house, I wasn't even worried about the checks,instruments that are rapidly becoming obsolete anyway.

This morning, Bob found the checkbook on the refrigerator, which I am too short to see. I had set the item there while tidying the top of the radiator, and then forgotten about it. I'm glad that I didn't have to get the big guns (St. Jude, Our Lady of Perpetual Help) on the job. I don't really think that you can bribe saints into ten dollar intercessory prayer, but just in case I'll be sure to drop off the promised funds at my favorite church of St. Louis de France.

The Lost Art of Cookie Baking

I'm sure I must have misunderstood Martha Stewart's directions. These cookies are going to the birds.

A quarter of a century ago (sounds longer than 25 years), I was a habitual and damn good cookie baker. It was a good entertainment for a young child, while teaching measuring skills too -- that was my mother's take on baking when my sister and I were little. The child in question has grown up with excellent measuring skills, but I'm not sure he's still familiar with the ones needed for successful cookie baking. Seems I'm not either.

Last Sunday I decided to crack open a new bag of flour and make peanut butter cookies. Rather than climb up on the kitchen step stool to bring down my trusty, but now under-used, Betty Crocker cookbook, I looked up an online Martha Stewart recipe. Looked familiar, with the usual ingredients (peanut butter, butter, egg, brown sugar but not too much of it, flour, baking soda). I added a bit of vanilla because it seemed wrong not to include it.

As I whipped through the baking routine, I thought with great satisfaction that I must have improved my efficiency in the last two decades, as I cleaned dishes during the time the cookies were in the oven, and prepared a third sheet as well, ending up with exactly the number (48) of cookies Martha said I'd get. I was feeling that my long professional career, filled with multitasking and coordinated tasks, was paying off in the kitchen. I wondered for a only a second or so whether 18-22 minutes wasn't a little long for a batch of cookies.

My self congratulatory interlude ended abruptly when I realized that the cookies were all over baked. Some were even a little burned on the bottom. I scraped off the dry crumbs on the bottom of most of the cookies and immediately put half of them in one of my bird feeders. Over the week, Bob and I have each had a couple of cookie pieces each day, but the rest, smelling a little charred, will go to the birds, who attacked the first batch with great enthusiasm. I can't believe that Martha was wrong but didn't have enough energy to recheck the baking time.

Betty Crocker is coming down to counter level.