5 Women Mayhem has entered the podcast world!

By the mayhem

Photo by Christopher Masada 

Welcome to 2026, a year of change and trying new things, including a podcast. There are many ways to share stories and the mayhem decided to try something new. We will keep writing and posting blogs because that's what we do. 

Give us a listen and share this conversation about how 5 women mayhem got started by Mary Kay Roth and how it has evolved. Listen to the stories behind the most meaningful blogs and what called us to write about the experiences in our lives and the latest headlines. 

Listen here and share!

Happy New Year and best to you and yours, 

The Mayhem

To Ares Brad, Avery Charlene, Joya Jade, Jack, Mauve and all members of the newest generation to inherit this mess

By JoAnne Young  

It’s the first year of a new generation and, baby, they are being born into some crazy times. Babies born in 2025 are the first official members of Generation Beta that will last until 2039. Their parents are younger Millennials and Gen Zs. Generation Beta isn’t much of a creative handle, so maybe as they age they’ll rename ... Gen AI. Generation Eco. Gen Really?

 

I’m hoping by the time this new generation gets to school, this country and world will be settling down and out from under the influence of the crazy politics we are living through now. No guarantees though. It could get worse before it gets better. By the time they take American History in school, I hope it will be imparted truthfully, and by the time they take science classes,   that it’s still part of the curriculum. 

 

Betas’ education could be highly personalized by AI, and augmented virtually, but that will have its pros and cons. They will be able to do amazing research and see the world virtually, with tours of world-renowned museums, historical sites, natural wonders and space. That’s not a substitute for in person viewing, but better than just photos in a book. 

 

Keep in mind, though, the generations that preceded the Betas have an obligation to teach them, to love them, protect and provide. 

 

Gen Alpha knows its way around technology, but the Beta Babies (and their parents) will have to wrestle with that growing influence of artificial intelligence. Some of the tech products that are becoming must-haves for infants and children include: 

 

*The Owlet Dream Sock that monitors Baby’s pulse rate and oxygen levels in real time. 

*AI that monitors Baby’s breathing with a camera.

*ieGeek Baby Monitor with Night Vision that will babysit, detecting every cry and motion, allowing parents to talk to the little one from another room, and doing a constant check on the temperature and humidity surrounding the little one.  

*A robo Bakebot that will mix ingredients and spit out scratch-made chocolate chippers or whatever cookie the heart desires.

*Alexa and other AI companions that can engage school age kids with interactive conversations, fun facts, games and songs. And they almost never get tired of answering those “why” questions, or the really silly ones. 

 

Who knows what’s next (well, someone does, but it’s not me)? I can speculate, though. Will self-driving cars take these Betas to school and play dates? Will technology allow parents to know where the kids are at all times, even when they don’t want to be located? Will medical research and artificially grown organs keep them healthy and active for at least 100 years?

 

All this innovation in science and engineering comes with caveats. The father of my Gen Alpha grandchildren, Adam, is a coder, programmer, and knows his way around the cyber world. He cares about how these kids will live, what jobs they’ll have, and what will matter most to them. He has helped build the technology that is used daily and that runs our society. What advice would he give to the Betas? For one thing, he said, staying glued to a screen, doesn’t help anyone grow.

 

“Your job is to understand how it works,” he said to the Betas, “and then learn how to step outside of it when you need to (and you need to) ... disengage with the algorithms.”

 

He recommends spending time in nature, hanging out where there’s no internet signal or screens. “Let the real world be your main source of clear, honest information. Explore art and objects you can touch, hold, or make a mess with. Talk to people face-to-face whenever you can.” 

 

That can help us all understand others better and remind us what it means to be human. 

 

Technology moves fast, but the society that surrounds it moves more slowly. “Use what you know about how quickly things can improve to challenge the old, slow rules (the rest of us) always had to follow.” Build something real in the world, for others, and to help you live your best life. 

 

Switching from hardware to the coding that operates each of us from the inside, I will mention a man who turned 88 the year the Betas began their journey. His name is Ernie Chambers and he is a lawmaker and a man of many words. I wish this generation could hear more of his words about how to live freely and justly in this world, but I will share some of what he’s had to say about love and relationships, from when he presided at a wedding in 2020. 

 

Relationships, he said, must be consciously and deliberately worked on each day. As much effort must be put into nurturing them as is exerted by elite athletes, top-flight lawyers and consummate musicians in keeping their skills sharp. They cannot be permitted to drift aimlessly, unattended to. 

 

When it comes to true love, its course never runs in a straight line, even under the best circumstances. Nature abhors a straight line. In music, it is a boring monotone. On a heart monitor, it means the show is over, he explained. 

 

Perfect love casts out not only fear, but jealousy, doubt and distrust. Aim for perfect with that daily effort and attention. And keep in mind that relationships require a magical and enduring combination of heart and mind - so that when the heart, that organ of romance, whimsy, impracticality and emotion - falls into one of its unpredictable moods and goes absent, the mind comes into play and asserts its wisdom, practicality and stabilizing influence. It saves the day by holding the fort until the heart regains its balance and love flows again.

 

Local historian Jim McKee offered the advice he would give to his as-yet-unborn eighth great-grandchild: Accept and embrace change. It is constant, mutable and not dissuaded. 

Redefine compromise. It has become a negative and yet makes all things possible. 

Work in every small way to slow climate change. If we can’t accomplish that, everything else is unimportant. 

 

Here’s a sampling of other advice from family, friends and experienced others. 

 

*  Practice courage doing something scary but not dangerous, says theologian Barbara Brown Taylor. The places you least want to go may have the richest treasures. 

 

* Author Mary Pipher advises: Have mercy on your parents. Play outside. Read books. Be kind to everyone. Musician Jim Pipher says he spent a lot of time in middle and high school dreaming of being in the NBA, shooting baskets, driving around and honking at friends. He should have been taking lessons and practicing to be a better guitar player today, he said. Decide what you care about, get busy with it and don't waste time on stupid stuff.

 

* My son, father of two younger Gen Zs, said: “Optimism is your friend. It can disappoint, but it is better than the alternative.” And know that anger is the punishment you give yourself for someone else’s behavior. 

 

* My daughter advised: “Seeing and getting to know people on a personal level breaks down fear and prejudice.” So have lots of different kinds of people in your life. Different races, different cultures, different abilities, ages, identities. “It’s all enriching.” 

 

Others added: 

 

 * Learn that life is so much more gray than black and white. Lifetime friends can be on opposite sides of issues.

 

* Pay close attention to what is going on around you. It’s the best education. 

 

* Be an independent thinker. Figure out how to verify what is offered as truth and share it. 

 

* Elect a president who will give you a list of their favorite movies and books at the end of each year, even after leaving office. A president who believes in people -- all genders, cultures, races and sexual orientations -- in a most civil way. Who respects the Constitution, inspires hope and advocates for what is best for the people of our country. 

 

* Learn self discipline, self sufficiency and accountability. Focus on your strengths, what you can do, not what you can’t.

 

* Follow your curiosity. Curiosity is your friend, a gentle, forgiving and constant one, says author Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s a hummingbird, going here and there, flower to flower, gathering and pollinating. 

 

* Keep the faith. Never, ever give up, McKee adds. It is all up to you.

 

Scribbling Women

 By Marilyn Moore

“Scribbling Women” was the title of a special exhibit at the International Quilt Museum earlier this fall.  The phrase was taken from a letter written by Nathaniel Hawthorne, a 19th century author; you’ll remember him as the author of “The Scarlet Letter.”  He said, bitterly, “America is now wholly given over to a damn mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash – and should be ashamed of myself if I did.”  A rising middle class of women in the 19th century meant that women had time to read, and to write…and they did.  In fact, women wrote the era’s best sellers.  Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” sold 300,000 copies in three months. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps’ “Gates Ajar” sold 80,000 copies by 1900.  After an initial printing of 750 copies, Susan Warner’s “The Wide, Wide Word” was in such demand that by 1852 it was on its fourteenth edition.  And Nathaniel Hawthorne?  Leading to his disgruntled statement about scribbling women, “The Scarlet Letter” sold 7700 copies in his lifetime.  His contemporary, Herman Melville, saw 3215 copies of “Moby Dick” sold in his lifetime.  (All information about 19th century books sold is from the “Scribbling Women” exhibit.)

This is not a blog about the quilts, though they were very engaging.  Take a look at the one on the right.  Equality before the Law.   Susan B. Anthony.  Joan of Arc.  Clara Barton.  Louisa Alcott. Elizabeth Browning. Elizabeth C. Stanton.  Quite a cast of learned and activist women.  Quilts such as this were sometimes auctioned for fundraising purposes, including abolitionist societies, Civil War hospitals, and early women's suffrage movements.  May have been a little threatening to some....

This is not a blog about the relative merits of the books written and sold by female and male authors in the 1800’s.  I recognize that “The Scarlet Letter” and “Moby Dick” are more well-known and more likely to have been read today than the books authored by the female writers, with the possible exception of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”  One might ask whether books that are selected as part of a standard reading list are more likely to be selected by male or female scholars….but that’s not what this blog is about, either.  

This blog is about scribbling women, and how very threatened some persons, mostly men, have been by women who write.  Obviously, Mr. Hawthorne was quite distressed.  I suspect both his livelihood and his reputation were threatened by scribbling women.  He is not alone.

Our current president, Donald Trump, appears to be quite threatened by scribbling women, those female reporters who cover his administration for national news outlets, both print and broadcast.  

Bloomberg reporter Catherine Lacey asked him about releasing the Epstein files. His response, “Quiet.  Quiet, piggy,” outraged women everywhere…and many men, too.  

“An ugly person, inside and out,” is how he described Katie Rogers who wrote the “New York Times” story about Trump’s declining health, energy, and acuity.

When asked by a female reporter aboard Air Force One what part of his body the MRI had been looking at, Trump said, "I have no idea. It was just an MRI.  It wasn’t the brain because I took a cognitive test and I aced it. I got a perfect mark, which you would be incapable of doing." 

To Mary Bruce, ABC’s White House correspondent, he said: “Are you stupid? Are you a stupid person? You’re just asking questions because you’re a stupid person,” in response to a question about Mohammed bin Salman’s involvement in killing Washington Post journalist Jamal Khashoggi.

When CBS Chief White House Correspondent followed up on the vetting of the Afghans who entered the country following the fall of Afghanistan to the Taliban, he said, “Are you stupid?  Are you a stupid person?”

It’s a pattern, and the frequency and intensity are growing. These insults are not made to male reporters.  The insults are about the female reporters’ appearance and intelligence.  It looks to me as if our president is afraid of what scribbling women will write…and his response is intimidation and bullying to keep them from doing so.

It doesn’t work, of course.  Every one of these interactions has been reported by multiple media outlets.  The scribbling women are doing their jobs, reporting on the work of the President of the United States and his administration.  It’s wearing, I suspect.  Most professional women have experienced being intimidated and bullied, insulted about appearance and intelligence, all to keep them from speaking up, from doing their job, from being the best in their field. 

Perhaps most discouraging to me about these incidents is the lack of response from the reporters’ colleagues.  I get that it’s a competitive business, and that the next reporter to get a chance to speak wants to use that opportunity for a question, not to defend the previous reporter.  I could even buy the argument that being insulted and called names is part of the job, especially in the pressure cooker White House assignment, except that it’s so obviously not a part of the job for male reporters….

In this very complex and stressful life of our democracy, two scribbling women provide information and insights daily that I find helpful.  Heather Cox Richardson, History Professor at Boston University, writes “Letters from an American.”  She reports on and analyzes the events of the day, and she relates them to the full scope of US history, noting patterns, trends, and where we’ve been before.  Full citations are included for those who want to read further.  Joyce Vance, attorney and former US Attorney for the Northern District of Alabama, writes “Civil Discourse” daily, in which she reports and analyzes the events of the day from her legal background, with references to the Constitution and to relevant case law.  You can find both on Substack, on Facebook, or by subscribing to their email distribution.  

I’m grateful to Heather Cox Richardson and Joyce Vance for their work as scribbling women. I'm grateful to scribbling women reporters who show up every day to do their job and report on the happenings in this administration.  And I’m grateful to the untold hundreds of thousands of scribbling women who write a letter, send an email, or pick up the phone and call their members of Congress on issues they care about.  There is power in the collective of scribbling women.  

Unexpected gifts in the dark

 By Mary Kay Roth

One early morning this past week, as usual, I let my dog, Pip, dash into the fenced-in backyard while I got ready for my sunrise walk.  But on this particular morning a fox was lingering close by and apparently Pip took chase, somehow getting over or through our fence.   

When I realized my pup was gone I rushed outside into the cold dark and started jogging through our neighborhood, up and down blocks, chasing down leads from walkers who all described seeing “the blur of a white dog.” After an hour or so, I ran out of leads, lost the trail and plodded the mile back home, discouraged, hoarse and sobbing.

But there was Pip, one tired and happy mutt, waiting for me on my front porch. And I gathered that big silly naughty rescue dog into my arms with love.

It was a simple moment in time. Nothing had gone wrong.  Yet I started thinking about the gift I’d been given that morning. Pip had not headed for any of the busy arterials in our area.  She hadn’t vanished.  She had found her way back home.

One of those unexpected gifts offered up by the universe.

A perfect cup of coffee. Getting Wordle in two guesses. Untangling strings of Christmas lights and all the lights – light up. Those live concerts this summer when musicians actually sang the three songs I really wanted to hear.

Indeed, I’m not talking about packages tied up in bows or the stuff on long holiday wish lists or items purchased on shopping trips to the mall (or even on Amazon Prime).

I’m talking about both trivial and profound blessings when life takes notice and takes you by surprise.

A lovely first snowfall that’s not too heavy to shovel. My car sliding on the ice after that latest snowstorm, the little Subaru whirling around and stopping – when no other car is coming. Walking around the lake at dawn after a difficult night and pausing to breathe in a simple sunrise.  

I’m talking about painting my new garage door in four different shades of color and loving my artwork (despite dire warnings of losing my warranty).  Dropping my cell phone on a recent hike – and within minutes having another walker shout out that he’d found it.  A bartender overhearing me say I’d always wanted to mix drinks, then asking me to come around the bar for a lesson in stirring up a whiskey sour.

I’m talking about one ordinary evening earlier this fall when I noticed a simple message on the neighborhood text chain – about magic in the sky –  then heading up to Woods Park to marvel over the most wondrous and surprise display of Northern Lights ever.  Glory, glory.

This coming week I will have my three-year cancer checkup, perhaps a strange topic for unexpected gifts.  I get crazy nervous at every one of these examinations, though I have every reason to expect good news. But the appointment does remind me about the lessons I found in that experience.

Yes, cancer sucks. But amidst the inevitable sadness I discovered an unexpected promise of transformation, the truly profound understanding that life is a gift. 

Somehow, lately I’ve lost that groove.

Over the past months I’d fallen into a miserable rut of whining and wailing.  Rest assured there is plenty to whine about: The horror of our country committing war crimes, the atrocities of what’s happening to our immigrant and refugee families, the endless saga of the Epstein files, a maniac giving insane advice on vaccinations.

Yet sometimes even I get tired of my own moaning and groaning.

I haven’t been paying attention.

To the brightest cardinal suddenly perched upon my living room windowsill – and the heron perched on the Holmes Lake bridge while I stood beside him. Or the magic of twilight on absolutely any evening of the week.

To new jeans that actually fit.  A fall election offering up a thin slice of hope and – good grief – even Marjorie Taylor Greene flipflopping her allegiance.

And, oh my gosh, to the bewildering and shocking good fortune of friendship, an unexpected gift that gobsmacks me every single day. 

Friends who go back to my childhood. Friends who provide wine and whiskey and deliveries of free firewood.  Friends who hold me when I cry.  Or who suggest we dance in the rain and place red roses on snowy graves at Wyuka.

When one of my friends asked about the topic of my blog today, they smiled and said that sounded “right on brand.”

Once upon a time I felt like a dork for seeking out silver linings and I’d point out how I write plenty of grumpy rantings. I can be grim. I can be dark. 

As I’ve grown older, however, I’m fine to be the nerd still looking for the light.

Because even when the pickings seem slim …

I gaze upon grandchildren, snuggled up in front of the fireplace. Discover my daughter has planned a surprise carriage ride. Find a Door Dash delivery of yellow curry on my doorstep, sent by my son … just because.

Admittedly, I have no clue what Trump will do tomorrow.  My cancer check awaits.

But Thanksgiving arrived this year with a house full of family, including both my niece and nephew, two young people sharply divided by politics – in case you didn’t read my last blog – who had vowed never again to spend holidays together.

Nonetheless, miraculously, an unexpected gift, they sat around the dinner table together.  

There was peace on earth.  

And a reinforced, fortified fence in my backyard.

The ABCDismantling of children’s health by MAHA

By Karla Lester, M.D.  

Airway

Breathing

Circulation 

 

 

It was the last hour of my shift covering the ER in residency as a senior resident in pediatrics. I was called down to see a 6 year-old with difficulty breathing and fever with a history of asthma. The adult doctors seeing her thought they were doing a good job by giving her a nebulizer treatment until I got there.

 

When I pulled back the curtain to see Josie, a sweet 6 year-old in what was clearly respiratory distress, I saw that they neglected to tell me she was covered in petechiae (tiny red spots) and purpura (bruise-like rash) from head to toe that looked to be spreading. She appeared cyanotic and was working hard to breathe. She was clearly in respiratory distress. Her “rash” appeared to be a classic rash of meningococcemia.  A glance up to the monitors tracing her vital signs showed all the ominous signs of distress and that she would likely code any minute. 

 

The nebulizer was doing nothing. This clearly wasn’t an asthma exacerbation, but rather looked like a case of meningococcemia, a fast-moving infectious disease caused by the bacteria, Neisseria meningitidis, that is oftentimes fatal or if the patient survives, leaves them with debilitating amputations. My heart sank as my heartbeat spiked. I paged the PICU attending, who happened to be The Attending, I called her. She was the most no-nonsense brilliant doctor. She only cared about the patients. Not your feelings. 

 

The Attending rushed down to the ER and pulled the curtain back, looked at me and said, “ABC,” and called for the crash cart and proceeded to start a rapid sequence intubation on a patient who was clearly in shock and getting ready to code. Josie was sedated, paralyzed and intubated. The Attending ordered high dose Rocephin (antibiotic) and drips of pressors to keep Josie’s blood pressure up as she was clearly in septic shock. She was moved to the PICU, where it was very tenuous and then, when she stabilized, it was clear that Josie would be left with marked disabilities. The Attending stayed by Josie’s bedside that night and the coming tenuous days. 

 

ABC which stands for Airway, Breathing, Circulation are the steps in the sequence for assessing and treating a patient with life-threatening conditions. Children can get sick and die. Children have disabilities from diseases that aren’t always preventable. Trump, RFK Jr. and Republicans under their marketing gimmick, MAHA are pulling back the curtain and watching children who are critically ill like Josie and instead of Airway Breathing Circulation, they are, 

 

Attack pediatricians

Berate science

Cut Medicaid

 

They have created preventable real emergencies in children’s health. Vaccine misinformation spread by RKF Jr. is causing severe illness and preventable deaths in babies and children who aren’t getting their pertussis and measles vaccines. There seems to be no end to the lies and misinformation about children’s health by the Trump administration, specifically RFK Jr. under the banner, MAHA. Republican leaders sit by and watch it happen. 

 

Attacks on pediatricians in this country are nothing new. Pediatricians are being accused of making it big from vaccines and big pharma, which is a complete joke. I’m a social media doc and believe me, their followers believe this lie. I never dreamed it would come to this. Pediatricians have more and more parents refusing Vitamin K, erythromycin ointment and Hepatitis B vaccine at birth. 

 

And we haven’t seen anything yet. The One Big Ugly Child Health Harming Bill is cutting Medicaid $880 Billion dollars, putting work requirements on Medicaid, and putting caps on federal graduate loans, meaning less primary care doctors to care for children. 

 

I never dreamed the Republicans would sit by and let this harm happen to children across the U.S. But it’s nothing new. When it comes to gun deaths in children, they sit by and watch it happen and collect money from the gun lobby. Even though there is bipartisan support for universal background checks, they cannot step up. It is a very complex issue, but to sit by and do nothing while collecting gun lobby money is morally unconscious. 

 

The problem for MAHA is that pediatricians are the only group of physicians who advocate for our patients ahead of ourselves. It has always been this way and always will be. Children are first and with that vision, mission and expertise and collective voice, as MAHA fades, we will not. But photo op advocacy is not the way forward. 

 

I’ve played the game. No more. 

 

I saw a video of Senator Fischer visiting a nursing school and watching a simulated training. As she walked out, she told the reporter, “It’s not the role of the federal government to fund these programs.” Nebraska has a nursing shortage and the dismantling of the Department of Education under Trump drops nursing as a professional degree and puts caps on federal loans. Senator Fischer does not care.

 

I asked to meet with Congressman Flood, who does not care, before he voted on the confirmation of RFK Jr., before he voted yes on Trump’s OBBB and spouted talking points at his Town Halls. I offered to fly to D.C. to meet with him and to hold a town hall of pediatricians at my home so he could learn about the harms of RFK Jr. and Trump's Bill. He only reached out to meet with me after he voted yes. No, you do not get a photo op with me, while you, 

 

Avoid the needs of children

Belittle experts

Confuse parents

 

Self-declared expertise is dangerous in medicine, especially when it comes to the life and death of children. Controlling the children’s health narrative is the name of their game. 

 

Cutting the CDC, putting out misinformation about the causes of autism. Putting shame on mothers who take safe medication during pregnancy as the cause of autism and blaming vaccines while cutting autism research. Their claims have been refuted, as their ABC is,

 

Autism misinformation

Big, horrible bill 

Control the narrative

 

But, what I’m here to tell you is they do not care about children’s health. They never have. Leaning into child health advocacy, I’ve spent time at the U.S. Capitol with the American Academy of Pediatrics advocating for gun violence prevention and I got to meet Katie Beckett’s Mom, Julie, a hero of mine. It was 2018 when I did the photo op tour in D.C. 

 

Julie had worked with her Iowa Congressman and President Reagan to put in place the Katie Beckett Medicaid Waiver so her daughter who had developed meningitis as a toddler and had ongoing medical needs could be cared for at home. Julie Beckett taught us how to talk with legislators when we went to Capitol Hill the next day to advocate for gun violence prevention and funding for CDC research. 

 

Our group of Nebraska pediatricians met with Deb Fischer, very briefly with Ben Sasse as he was rushing to another meeting and didn’t want to be bothered, and Don Bacon’s aides. We left our one pager with data, next steps, request to support funding for gun research and then got our photo ops in. That was when I thought the little morsels of photo ops and little wins were how we did things and the best we child health advocates could hope for. 

 

During the beginning of the first Trump Presidency, CHIP, the Children’s Health Insurance Program, was up for reauthorization. CHIP had always been a bipartisan program and had support from both parties and the reauthorization was approved after a lot of advocacy. Senator John McCain gave his famous thumbs down to the dismantling of the ACA, but now Republicans want to officially end it, and they don’t care about the millions of Americans who will lose their health insurance. 

 

The gloves are off during the second Trump term. Old school advocacy isn’t going to work in MAHA’s Merica. It’s a different world with social media and the ability to follow their harms at an exhausting pace. They are planning on child health advocates getting exhausted. 

 

I never would have imagined that things would be this bad. That their ABC, would be,

 

Abolish agencies

Block data

Create health misinformation

 

There isn’t a parent on the planet who wouldn’t choose The Attending to be the one to take care of their child at that ABC moment. Trump, RFK Jr., Fischer, Ricketts, Flood, won’t have a clue what to do. All they can do is peddle their MAHA cult of supplements, raw milk, beef tallow, TrumpRx prescriptions and lies. 

 

Real time advocacy calls for a continuous quality improvement lens. We can use social media and all outlets possible to share the stories of the harms of the OBBB. There will be self-inflicted fallout for Republicans at the voting booth. They own this. Children like Josie with complex medical needs and disabilities are going to lose out under Trump and the Republicans’ bill. 

 

If they don’t start listening. If they don’t start caring, our only response must be show up for children at the ballot box, and VTO,

Vote 

Them 

Out!

Those food failures ... beware!

A Group blog by 5 Women Mayhem 

 

Ooops, puppy 

 

By JoAnne Young

 

As Thanksgiving approaches, a holiday focused around food, family and guests gathered around our tables, we couldn’t help but remember the mayhem that can occur when baking mishaps or trying to recreate a beloved mother’s recipe, or mindful consumption or pets intersect in the kitchen. 

 

Food calamities happen ... not just on the holidays but year round. Like the time my daughter Elizabeth and her then boyfriend, later husband, Adam, were preparing a meal for another couple centered around a pork tenderloin. They wrapped it in prosciutto and left the kitchen for a few minutes to work on another project for a friend. When they returned, the pork tenderloin had disappeared and their wheaten terrier Bueller was skulking away, guilty-faced but likely smiling with content on the inside. 

Not a great day for them, but "we still refer to that as the  best day of Bueller's life," my daughter told me.

We've all had them, those kitchen calamities. Here are a few of ours. 

Pecan pie bars -- an epic failure 

By Marilyn Moore

 

Three of us were planning a morning brunch to introduce friends to a candidate whose election

we’re supporting. One friend specializes in scones. The second specializes in muffins. I chimed

in that I would bring bars, 7-layer and pecan pie bars. Their eyes lit up at “pecan pie bars,” so I

knew it was a good idea. Not that I’ve baked pecan pie bars, but I’ve made pecan pies for

years, and I have my mom’s recipe for bars, so what could go wrong?

 

My mom was an excellent cook, and an excellent baker. She tired of both in her later years, a

reality I now understand up close and personal, but I have many of her recipes, and they’re

time-tested and always good. I found the recipe…there it is, in her own handwriting, such a

treasure…and I remember eating these bars when she made desserts for family gatherings and

church dinners. Easy to read, easy to prepare, all familiar ingredients, home free.

 

I’d looked at several pecan pie bar recipes, and they’re all basically the same. Make a bottom

layer of some combination of flour, sugar, and shortening, and bake it. Mix the top layer, some

combination of sugar, eggs, butter, pecans, syrup, and pour it over the baked bottom layer.

Bake some more.

 

So I did. Following Mom’s recipe, I baked the bottom layer for 10 minutes. I poured the top layer over, put it back in the oven, and set the timer for 50 minutes, at which time the center should be “set.” At 50 minutes, the center was not only not set, it was still sloshing around in the pan. After another 40 minutes, a thin crust was beginning to form, so I took the pan out of

the oven, hoping it would continue to thicken and set as it cooled.

 

It was not to be. The next morning, spooning out one bite from the corner of the pan was like

dipping into maple syrup with floating pieces of pecans. Maybe a topping for ice cream, but

this was never going to be a pan of pecan pie bars.

 

I dumped it all and made a second pan of 7-layer bars. My biggest regret is not the epic baking failure, but the realization (again) that I can no longer give Mom a call and ask for her advice.

 

A memorial to Larry the Lobster

 

By Mary Kay Roth

 

Our mistake was giving him a name. I’m sure that’s when the real trouble started.

 

But of course we need to start from the very beginning, a simple job assignment when I was a features reporter at the Journal Star.

 

In those days we took turns writing various kinds of stories, and this was my turn on the food rotation. I was to buy a live lobster, prep it, boil it and serve it, something I had never done before.

 

Now, for those who don’t know me well, you need to understand I have a kind heart and a tender soul – for pretty much all creatures (except maybe cockroaches). So, the agony commenced immediately when my two young kids and I went to purchase a live lobster – knowing the poor guy would be doomed. 

 

We forged on, nonetheless, choosing a lobster, bringing him home and naming him Larry – as I recall, borrowed from a character in SpongeBob SquarePants.

Per recipe instructions, I started a huge pot of boiling water and took the ill-fated fellow out of the fridge – still thriving and waving his claws.

 

I was heartbroken.

 

But feeling the diligence of a good reporter, I dropped Larry into the steaming water and literally sobbed as the poor fellow bubbled and boiled.

 

Eventually he was cooked to perfection, but alas we knew Larry too well. In fact, these days there is growing research that boiling live lobsters is inhumane and the process is banned in several countries.

 

So, on that fateful day we said a quiet prayer, refused to eat Larry and promised we’d never forget him. We never have.

 

The Smoking Cake

 

By Karla Lester 

 

Especially during the holidays, food drama is a broad category because it’s often enmeshed with

family drama. Most of the holiday food drama I’ve experienced in my life is due to differing

beliefs, even gender stereotypes around food. Food, the menu planning, preparation, even for

straightforward holidays like Thanksgiving, can get weaponized. Now, wait a second. I may be

slow on the uptake, but after a few decades of navigating holidays with the same people, the light

bulb is going off. 

 

This drama may not be about the food.

 

There’s a lot of differing beliefs about food waste. Some of the family wants to make sure

everyone has plenty and can have leftovers ad infinitum. Better love turkey in that house. Others

challenge themselves to rise to a Goldilocks occasion and make just the right amount. 

 

Food is tricky and yes, dramatic at times, especially when you have the drama of a food flop like

the case of the ex-boyfriend and The Smoking Cake.

 

Let me preface this true crime. You should know, in my defense, I’m a good cook because it’s

something I love to do. I’m not a good baker. I have specific items I can do like cookies and

quick bread and Ooey Gooey Butter Cake about once a year. But never and I repeat never ask me

to make you a pie or a cake. That would be at your peril. 

 

Back to the case of the ex-boyfriend and The Smoking Cake. Saying I have an ex-boyfriend

implies that I have a current one.  I do not. 

 

So, I decided to make my ex a cake for his birthday. It had been going on our sixth or seventh

year of no commitment. I lost count. I got the recipe for from scratch chocolate cake and

marshmallow frosting. Yum! Hopes are up at this point. My ex couldn’t commit to giving me a

ring, but I could commit to serving him this cake, no matter what.

 

Too many microbiology classes in medical school meant I cook the s**t out of most items. You

won’t get salmonella, but you may need an extra glass of water to choke that turkey down your

gullet. 

 

Making the batter went swimmingly. I had to improvise because I lived in a studio apartment and

didn’t have a lot of kitchen paraphernalia. I realized I had only one cake pan. No problem. I

baked the first layer and took it out of the oven to cool. Still no problem. I dumped the layer onto

a plate to continue cooling and went on to bake the second layer in the cake pan. I didn’t realize

that I put the plate near the electric burner that I had been cooking on. 

“This cake is on fire.” 

 

I looked over to see that the plate had cracked, and flames were coming up out of the cake. I was

able to get the flames out calmly with a tea towel. I was in medical school. Perhaps trauma

surgery would be a good fit. But, now what? I decided to let the cake cool off after it had been on

fire. Then, I could reassess. There was no internet and certainly no YouTube for how to salvage a

burnt cake back in the 90’s. I needed to improvise. How bad could it be? I decided to let the ex

be the judge of that. 

 

I carefully cut off ⅓ of the bottom of the cake layer, believing I had removed all the burned bits.

 

I put the top layer on and then after cooling, I frosted the cake with you guessed it, overcooked

marshmallow frosting. It turned out to be a crunchy shell you could knock on. 

 

When the ex came over, we had a nice dinner and then it was time for The Smoking Cake. I

didn’t say a word to him because I didn’t want to spoil his birthday and thought he most likely

wouldn’t notice the cake had been on fire. The ex couldn’t catch a hint to buy me a big old

diamond ring. I was sure he wouldn’t catch onto the cake drama.

 

Boy, was I ever wrong. I watched his face with a mix of anticipation and dread as he bit into the

cake. He dramatically, which I really feel was over the top, spit out the whole bite and

exclaimed, “This tastes like smoke!”

 

“That’s because it was on fire. Sorry.” 

 

It’s too late for me, but you may be able to save your burnt cake. 

 

According to the AI overview:

To fix a burnt cake, carefully trim the burnt edges with a knife or grater, then use frosting or

syrup to cover any remaining imperfections. Prevent future burnt cakes by ensuring the oven

temperature is accurate, placing the cake on the center rack, using the correct pan, and not

overfilling the pan.  

Here's a pic of me in my Girlboss Birthday era with the from scratch chocolate cake and marshmallow frosting, how it was supposed to turn out. 

A little mayhem in the kitchen. We'd love to hear about yours. -- 5 Women Mayhem