Finding My Voice

Hello, Handsome ...

2012-01-26T20:33:00.003-06:00

Angelo must not sleep.

He can't possibly. There aren't enough hours in a day to accomplish all that he accomplishes, so he must tap into the night, too.

This evening, he posted a few links to some new pieces.

And I have fallen in love with this:

Isn't he handsome?

I told Angelo that he needs to ship this stunner with a bottle of Scotch. This is a Scotch-drinkin' perch, that's what this is.

Go buy a bottle. (I'm a Macallan girl, myself.) You'll have money in your pocket because not only is this settee gorgeous, he's impossibly affordable.

Don't you feel more refined already?

For The Love Of Office Supplies ...

2012-01-25T19:49:00.008-06:00

I have always loved school supplies.

When I was younger and my mom would haul me with her to the pharmacy where she paid our electric bill – and perhaps picked up prescriptions, too – I was allowed to wander down the school supply aisle because it was in line with the service window, so she was able to keep an eye on me.

I was in my heaven among the Pink Pearl erasers and translucent rulers and spiral-bound notebooks, the bane of teachers everywhere. Pencil boxes and markers – oh, markers – and folders and packs of loose-leaf paper. And the piece de resistance, the box of 64 crayons with the sharpener built in.

Heaven, I tell you. Heaven.

And sometimes, my dad would take me to the stationery store when he had to pick up a new rubber stamp for his business. I remember the day I discovered larger binder rings. He bought a few of them for me. They made excellent bracelets.

To this day, I'm plenty happy to wander around an office-supply store. Sometimes, I even need to buy something. My relationship with binder clips is well known to many. (Doesn't everyone have four sizes on hand?)

The store I frequent most frequently begins with an Office and ends with a Depot. And recently, the location I frequent most frequently moved. From next door to the Bed Bath & Beyond to the space formerly occupied by Barnes & Noble.

The new location is carpeted. It feels wrong.

And now I have to learn the new layout. I used to know right where I was headed when I actually needed something, but now, oh, nothing where it's supposed to be.

But I was there the other day because I needed to buy some shipping boxes. I spied the shipping supply section. Labels. Tape. Bubble mailers. Tubes. Clasp envelopes. But nary a box. Seriously? Could they only be had online? Crap.

But no. I found them. All the way at the back of the store. Which made no sense. But fine. I grabbed four 6x6x6 boxes in their flattened state, $1.49 each. Six bucks for four boxes. That seemed kind of silly.

Then I remembered that I needed jewel cases. (Yes, I still use them sometimes.) I found my way to them and was reaching for a 50-pack for $16 and change when I spied a 30-pack for ... $7.59.

Now, math was not my best subject in school, but I did OK on my 2s when I learned multiplication.

$7.59 x 2 = $15.18

and

30 x 2 = 60

Huh. Ten more cases for less money?

I didn't need 50 anyway. So I grabbed a 30-pack and headed for the checkout, still thinking that $6 seemed like a lot of money to spend for four boxes, but c'est la vie.

At home, though, I looked for them online. Uline sells boxes.

Do you know what Uline charges for a 6x6x6 box? $0.26. Yeah, that's right: 26 cents.

Granted, I have to buy at least 25 of 'em.

But do you know what 25 x $0.26 is?

$6.50.

So, yeah, Office Depot won't be seeing any future box-buying business from me.

I requested a Uline catalog today. It's available online, but I still like printed pieces. I am more than a little giddy at the thought of ordering mailing tubes for shipping sleeves of cookies. And boxes in assorted sizes. And bubble mailers.

No crayons. But lots of other good stuff. Including jewel cases.

Heaven.

On Behalf Of Women, Continued ...

2012-01-24T22:58:00.005-06:00

This post is a continuation of a post I wrote last month.

The day after I posted that entry, I wrote much of what follows. And then I didn't post it. It didn't feel done. But reading it again tonight, in combination with a comment I left for a friend on Facebook earlier today, it now feels newly relevant. So I'm posting it with new content at the end.

Yesterday, I was feeling glib. And so I wrote glibly.

But as my friend who first posted the question that inspired my post and I kept trading comments on Facebook, the discussion turned more thoughtful.

I mentioned that women, from an early age, are conditioned to be mindful of their looks. "Toddlers & Tiaras" is a horrifying example, but, I went on to point out, there is no male equivalent of beauty pageants, there are no events at which men are judged solely on their looks.

He replied to say he hadn't considered that before, that the closest male competition would be Mr. Universe.

But that, I pointed out, is a competition based on a pursuit. No man is born looking that way. They have to work hard to get those monstrous bodies.

In pageants, on the other hand, women strut around in their bathing suits and frighteningly white teeth and seek approval of their looks from the likes of – talking about adding insult to injury – Donald Trump.

It was a good discussion, as Facebook discussions go, and some friends chimed in with thoughts and quips. One female friend wondered why women of a certain age are only ever seen on television to discuss their irregularity. (Gales of laughter when I read that.)

But my brain continued to ruminate on the topic, and I realized that I was thinking about a woman I saw at the post office on Saturday. An older woman, in her mid to late 70s, I'd guess. Maybe older. Lovely white hair. She was in front of me in line, a couple of people ahead. She was wearing a long navy coat. She interacted with the clerk kindly.

On my way out the door, I noticed her behind me and held the door for her. She thanked me. "Some doors are so heavy," she said.

"They are," I agreed.

The door wasn't heavy by my standards, but it was by hers.

This, though, was the first time I saw her face, and I was struck by her makeup. It was applied beautifully, but I don't often see women of her age in full makeup.

And I wondered, yesterday, about why she still wears it. Habit? Did she grow up learning that she should never leave the house without putting on her face?

And that phrase struck me in a way that it's never registered with me before: put on your face. As if the face each of us was born with isn't good enough to show the world?

Of course, she may simply like to wear makeup. It may just make her feel pretty. And that's fine.

When I was younger, I couldn't wait to wear makeup. I used to badger my mom. (Hi, mom. Sorry about that.) But I never got into wearing it. Because, I suppose, my mom didn't wear it. Not the way many women do. She'd give her eyebrows a little oomph and swipe on a coat of mascara and maybe a touch of lipstick, but that was it. No foundation, no powder, no eyeshadow, no eyeliner, no lipliner, no blush.

Today, my routine isn't much different: a pat-down of powder, a smudge of eyeliner, a coat of mascara, a swipe of lipstick on my lower lip, rub my lips together and go.

I've had my makeup done a few times, once for my headshot, once because the makeup artist at the salon where J-D as doing my hair noticed that I needed help (I bought products from her that day, since that's what one is supposed to do when one has a makeover; the foundation shade she chose for me makes me look like John Boehner; I've never used it), and once before a birthday lunch. Ronnie, bless his heart, is very good at what he does, but I had to tell him to get rid of the metallic gold eye makeup. I looked like Cleopatra. (In more-than-my-usual makeup, I swing between looking like Cleopatra and John Boehner. No wonder I don't wear it.) Cleopatra notwithstanding, when I've had my makeup done, I've mostly liked the results.

But I wear very little is my point. At the end of the day, I don't wash off a flesh-colored mask.

And today, what made this feel relevant was Melissa McCarthy's Oscar nomination.

A friend on Facebook posted this link from Salon: "Melissa McCarthy’s great big win: The 'Bridesmaids' star and best supporting actress nominee proves success doesn't always come in a size zero."

I clicked.

I read.

I sighed.

I wrote on the friend's page, "It saddens me that a 'Woohoo! A fat person got an Oscar nod!' story is, in fact, a story. Meanwhile, Angelina Jolie looks painfully close to being anorexic. The whole 'beauty' industry is insane."

Insane.

It saddens me. No one feels the need to write a story when a hefty man achieves a well-deserved accolade.

And tonight I saw Marie Osmond in a commercial looking almost nothing like Marie Osmond. What the hell did she allow to be done to her face? In the name of what? Because, Marie, dear, I hate to tell you, but that's not beauty. That's disfigurement.

And even as models die and photographs are Photoshopped to whittle images of women into impossibly inhuman forms, it persists.

Is there truly no end? It seems to be chronic and incurable, this hideous pursuit of beauty, this ceaseless pursuit of superficial worth.

There must be a remedy.

Mustn't there?

A Cookie Story ...

2012-01-22T13:21:00.011-06:00

I remember churning out a ridiculous number of cookies from the oven of my apartment-sized stove in my little studio on Waveland. Maybe that was the year all this started.

Or maybe it wasn't. But somewhere along the line, cookies became my thing.

One of my editors dubbed me The Cookie Queen. I liked it. CQ, for short. Which is also shorthand, in the world of newspaper editing, for "I checked this. It's correct." Familiarity breeds contentment.

So, I baked. Each year, the holidays would roll around and I'd plot my list of cookies, which grew to somewhat ridiculous proportions. No one needs a selection of 14 varieties, but, well, I may have a bit of a problem with shelving an idea once it worms its way into my brain. And each year, I would make a list of recipients, and that swelled, too.

And I would bake. And somehow, I would manage to stash them all in my freezer, Tetris style, and then I would package them and dole them out as the calendar wended its way toward Christmas, and people were happy.

Really happy.

Which is why I bake.

Baking means never having to say you're jaded.

There have been days over the years when I have been more than a little loathe to begin and there have been days over the years when I am more than happy to wash the last cookie sheet, tuck the KitchenAid back into the corner where it rests, and bid my equipment goodnight.

But the joy they bring, those humble offerings of butter and sugar and flour and love. Amazing. Every time.

And so, over the years, people have told me I should open a bakery, I should sell cookies online, I should do something more.

And I've thought about it. And that was it.

I am very good at talking myself out of many things.

A bakery wouldn't work, I decided, because:

a) I cannot make every cookie myself. There are only so many hours in a day.

b) What makes my cookies special is that I make them.

c) I do not want to hand over a recipe to a commercial baker and say, "I need 10,000 of these today, please."

d) I do not want to bake every day. Some days, I'm inspired. Other days, I'm not. I told myself I didn't want to lose my love for it.

e) (You get the idea.)

But for all the things I've decided not to do in life – become a doctor, persist with online dating, camp – the notion of baking for more than just family and friends hasn't gone away.

Always, there are little nudges, suggestions, hints.

Some, come to think of it, have not been so little. But they all add up.

The encouragement of family and friends is valuable and yet easy to discount. Of course they say those things, I tell myself. They're my family and friends.

But more and bigger pieces are starting to slot into place.

Last year, I started contributing to Angelo's blog, knowing full well that he wasn't asking me to provide content so much as he was challenging me to think more creatively and pursue this path. His blog provides an outlet beyond my own.

And then a few months ago, a friend asked me to bake for him for his clients for the holidays.

And around that same time, someone who has enjoyed my baked goods in the past asked me if I would consider baking for her for events at her home.

And somewhere along the line, I became a more avid reader of Leite's Culinaria and became cyber pals with its namesake. I do not believe David could be more delightful and charming if he tried.

And for Christmas, my brother's family gave me a gift card to Williams-Sonoma (tucked inside a very awesome oven mitt) and I wandered around the store and while I found many things I would like, I settled on Sarabeth's Bakery: From My Hands to Yours. (Which, oddly, doesn't appear in the cookbook offerings on Williams-Sonoma's site, hence the link to Amazon.) I thought I might not need another baking book, but it was beautiful, and Angelo loves Sarabeth's chocolate shortbread (and other treats), so it came home with me. And I sat and read it. Not every word of every recipe – not yet – but all of the text upfront and at least part of every page.

And then, on Thursday, Leite's Culinaria featured a post by Sarabeth and the recipe for her croissants.

And this is where the story gets interesting. Or maybe more interesting. I hope it's been interesting all along.

I commented on the post: "I bought her book recently. I’m in love with it. Easily one of the best baking books I own. I’ve never attempted croissants, but this recipe (along with the scene playing in my head of Meryl Streep making chocolate croissants for Steve Martin in “It’s Complicated”) make me want to try!"

And the next comment to post was from Sarabeth: "I remember it like it was yesterday when Meryl Streeep learned from me to roll the croissant for the movie. She picked up the technique quickly… a natural at everthing. The scenes inside the bakery were shot at Sarabeth’s Bakery. There is a quick moment when you see someone sheeting the dough through our sheeting machine. It’s in slo-mo….that someone is me!"

I had no idea!

Meanwhile, I discovered (via Renee Schettler, if memory serves) that Sarabeth has an account on Twitter. So I followed her. (She's @goddessobakedom, FYI.) And she, much to my delight, followed me back. I tweeted Angelo into the mix, presuming that he would like to follow her, too. And she followed him back. So now we were all connected in a happy Twitter loop.

And then later that day, I saw this:

Um, wait. What?

Sarabeth just plugged my cookies?

Sarabeth, she of the jam-making, café-opening, pastry-empire-building, Meryl-Streep-croissant-tutoring, gorgeous-baking-book-authoring genius, just plugged my cookies?!

Whoa.

The next day, I relayed the story to some friends.

"You have to get on a plane to New York! You have to meet her!"

Well, yes, I do. Someday. That would be lovely.

In the meantime, I sent a note to her. Told her it would be my pleasure to bake for her. Asked if she had a favorite.

She replied with her favorite.

I asked where I might send them.

And she sent me an address.

So, I shall bake for Sarabeth. And I hope she enjoys what I send.

Food people seem to like when other people do the cooking. Or the baking. I know I do.

I love the path she's taken, from cooking jam – well, marmalade first – in her apartment to the success she enjoys today. I can relate to the early part of her story. Perhaps someday I will be able to relate to more.

Last week, I wrote a post about my concern that too much of my life was frivolous. I've long felt like I should be doing something "important." Whatever that means.

And I included a photo of a rock from my friend Patti's site. "Do what you love."

Recently, I asked Angelo about the best part of his day. "Hmmmmm," he mused. "I had a chocolate shortbread cookie from Sarabeth's at Lord & Taylor." He cited other things, too, but I love that he led with a chocolate shortbread cookie from Sarabeth's.

There is a lot of joy to be found in a chocolate shortbread cookie.

There is lot of love that goes into baking for others.

It is a simple act. But it is profound.

It is, most definitely not, frivolous.

Double Chocolate Espresso Cookies ...

2012-01-19T15:27:00.001-06:00

Make these. Just go make these.

'Lost And Found' ...

2012-01-17T20:01:00.002-06:00

Somehow, it's been nearly two years since I wrote this post about Geneen Roth's Women Food and God.

I reread it tonight. A lot of thought went into that post, mostly about me, not as much about the book, but it's odd to summarize books of this ilk. What's important to me isn't necessarily important to you. And I surely do not intend for my posts to serve as replacements. If the book appeals to you, it's worth looking into for yourself.

Last night, I finished reading Roth's Lost and Found, which, for me anyway, struck me as even more important than Women Food and God.

Losing all of her life savings to Bernie Madoff's scam forces her to, once and for all, confront her issues about dealing with money, and she draws the parallels between dealing with money and dealing with food. Or, to begin with, not dealing with money and not dealing with food.

I read the entire book aloud, yes, to myself. I do that sometimes, when I really want to focus on the message. Reading actively that way channels it more effectively into my brain. My mind is less likely to wander as I read.

As with her last book, I don't feel like it's my place to talk about what's most relevant. Though, for me, almost all of it was relevant.

Except the part about losing $1 million to Bernie Madoff. That didn't happen to me. And now, it never will.

But I will share this: "The true disaster is living the life in your mind and missing the one in front of you."

I read that and felt it like someone had punched me in the chest.

What I appreciated about this book was its lack of exercises. This isn't a book that requires putting pen to paper. Not overtly, anyway. But she provides plenty of food for thought.

It's a very worthwhile read.

Frivolous ...

2012-01-13T19:04:00.005-06:00

I have been having a conversation with three amazing women, only one of whom I know.

The other two are new in my life, since last week. I have yet to meet them, but I suppose it is unfair to say that I do not know them.

I know them. I know a bit about them, as much as one can glean in two conversations that have had to end.

These women are insightful in ways that I am not often insightful for myself.

Today, one of them said something so simple, I was literally struck dumb for a moment.

"I never thought of that," I finally managed to say.

I never thought of that.

In the first conversation, last week, I mentioned that I feel like too much of my life is frivolous. I had never described it that way before, and I was a little surprised when the word came out of my mouth. Frivolous. Frivolous. What a strange word.

Frivolous.

Look at it.

Frivolous.

It almost looks like nonsense.

There is this divide in my brain, this chasm that yawns between thoughts of things that I should do and things that bring me joy.

They are not the same things.

There is my mother's voice in my head (she hates when I use the word "mother," and it's true that she is not a "mother," she is very much a "mom"), telling me from a very young age that God gave me a very good brain.

I'll set the God component aside and own up to the very good brain part.

I'm smart. Really smart.

And I don't say that to boast, but to illustrate my point that being really smart predisposes me to believe that I have to do something with my life that very smart people do.

Many have told me I should go into politics.

No. No. A thousand times, no. The inanity would kill me.

Inanity. Rhymes with "insanity."

Politics, in its mature form, is certainly worthy. Politics, in its existing form, makes my stomach churn. And my head hurt. Who knew grown-ups could act that way? I've seen toddlers with better coping skills.

I am a leader, people tell me.

It has only now – literally, just seconds before I typed this – dawned on me that the only person I need to lead is myself.

I do not need to lead a team. Truly, I suck at delegating anyway. When I see something that I want done, I see the way I want it done, and I do it.

I needn't lead others directly.

Well. Huh. That's a good realization.

Way to go, brain.

I told the women about Patti Digh, my friend and author and all-around extraordinary gal, about her new web site and the daily rock.

"Do what you love," read the rock when I went to visit today.

It was later that I realized that I was looking at her home page and not her blog, which is the default page when anyone visits 37days.com and which features the true daily rock. No, the rock on her home page is static.

But still, today, as a message, it was important.

I've been making my way through Life is a Verb, her first book, which is not her first book, really, but which is the first book that came from her true self. Her earlier books were business books and I'm sure they're fine business books, as I can't imagine Patti turning in any work that is not fine, but when they arrived at her home, she felt nothing. No wonder. Patti is about as far away from traditional business as a woman can get.

Tonight, I flipped through it to read some of my notes in the margins and one of the first ones I wrote to myself was, "Importance is relative."

Why, yes, Beth, it is. And how nice of you to have already had that thought.

Importance is relative. What is important to me is very possibly not important to you.

Also, my brain is telling me that at the moment, I have no real way of knowing the future. Who knows what lies five years down the road? One year, for that matter. One week.

"When you take charge of your life, there is no longer need to ask permission of other people or society at large. When you ask permission, you give someone veto power over your life."
— Albert F. Geoffrey

Patti included that quote in a margin some pages later. Powerful. Veto power. (The politics association is not lost on me.)

What an amazing thing, letting go of expectations. Not expectations that others have of me. I clearly don't care about living up to those. If I did, everyone'd be sorely disappointed by now. But letting go of expectations I have of myself. The shoulds. The soul-crushing shoulds.

Should has gotten me nowhere. The Universe has kicked me out of every "should" situation I've tried.

Should. There's another weird word.

Should.

Who decides my shoulds?

Me.

Not other people or society at large.

"You're supposed to be the leading lady in your own life, for God's sake!"

I love that line, from "The Holiday."

Indeed.

And what could be less frivolous than that?

Good Times, January Edition ...

2012-01-10T12:30:00.000-06:00

The January cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Coconut Chocolate Almond Biscotti, a biscotti of my own creation, inspired by an Almond Joy.

'The Magic Room' ...

2012-01-09T20:22:00.009-06:00

One of my goals for the new year – not a formal goal, but a "Yeah, that'd be good" – is to read at least a book a week.

I've gotten far away from reading books. Magazines? You betcha. Long-form writing online? Yup. But books, my long-time beloveds, have languished.

Jeff, my very-prolific-author friend, always sends his latest book to me. Reliably, the day a book drops, clunk!, there it is in my mailbox, too. It's very generous of him, very kind.

And so it was, a couple of days after Christmas, when The Magic Room: A Story About The Love We Wish For Our Daughters arrived from UPS.

Jeff had this book in the works when Rep. Gabrielle Giffords was shot last year. Jeff has become the go-to guy for quick-turnaround books from notable folks – Randy Pausch, Capt. Sully – and likewise he was tapped to help Gabby and her husband, Mark Kelly, tell their story. Gabby arrived in stores (and in my mailbox) November 15th. I started it, but the holidays took over and, well, reading didn't happen much.

But once the holidays had passed, I picked up Gabby again. And then The Magic Room arrived. And I found myself holding a book from Jeff in each hand.

I decided that I would read Gabby when I had time during the day and that I would read The Magic Room at night, before bed.

Before I knew it, I had read 90 pages of The Magic Room. And then last night, I read 90 more. And then I noticed the time. So I went to bed, but then I couldn't sleep, so I read until nearly 1 a.m. And I didn't much want to stop. But I did. And then I finished the book while I sipped my coffee this morning.

It's very sweet, well structured, with interesting stories to tell from the brides-to-be. (The Magic Room is a converted bank vault in Becker's Bridal in Fowler, Michigan, which has been run by the same family since 1934. It's paneled with mirrors to allow brides to step up on to the pedestal and see themselves from all angles and into infinity.) Jeff did a great job selecting a mix of brides: some younger, some older, some widowed, some divorced.

I fell in love with Meredith (awesome photo of your bridal party, woman!) and tried to understand Erika. And I cried when I read the recountings of all of the brides' weddings. I am a sap through and through.

Jeff had been trying to find the right hook on which to hang a book about love.

He found it.

Makes Beth Happy, January 8 ...

2012-01-08T08:37:00.000-06:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Verge!
As in, what comes before merge!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Homemade Nutella

Mind you, I will never actually make this. For the same reason that I no longer buy the jars at the store. And that reason is because I love it so much that if I were to eat it in proportion to how much I love it, the day would come when a crew would have to remove my roof and use a crane to extract me from my house.

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Vierra Dinner Napkins

I love the happy colors and the black and white stripes! The end of napkin confusion and festive, to boot! A lovely addition to dining outdoors, methinks.

37 Days ...

2012-01-05T20:06:00.004-06:00

My pal Patti Digh, ever the doer, just hosted an online event – a party – for, give or take, 1,200 of her fans and friends.

It was a chance for her to unveil her web site, 37days.com, but in typical Patti fashion, also to offer questions for us to ask of ourselves, and I am quiet now, not moving, chewing on this food for thought.

It will take quite some time to digest it. I relish that.

She asked all of us to bring cupcakes, because a party can hardly be called a party without cupcakes.

And so, today, I baked. Which is not unusual for me, generally, but today was special because as I frosted the cupcakes, I thought about the cupcakes I had baked in the past, and I realized that I had never baked cupcakes until today. And baking cupcakes was a nice first.

I made white frosting (as white as vanilla extract will allow frosting to be) and made it spiky, as a Patti tribute. Patti has fabulous white hair, made even more fabulous, I am happy to say, by J-D, my hair architect. And now, hers, too.

I added sprinkles, because they're important, and I held up each color candle I had on hand to help me decide, even though in my mind, I always knew that I would choose pink.

I encourage you to visit Patti's site and get to know my amazing friend. Who is excited to have a new orange desk. And a beautiful chair. And a space in which to create.

And who encourages us to do the same.

Bald Move: The Philosophy ...

2012-01-05T09:18:00.005-06:00

In November I wrote this post:

I am going to have someone shave my head.

I am going to raise $100,000 for St. Baldrick's and when I do, I am going to have someone shave my head at the St. Baldrick's event to benefit Donna's Good Things.

Not "I am going to try to raise $100,000 ... ," I am going to raise $100,000 for St. Baldrick's to benefit Donna's Good Things.

How, you ask?

With your help. And the help of everyone you tell. And the help of everyone I know in the media who will help me spread the word.

This is Donna. This is Donna's Cancer Story, written by Donna's Mama, my amazing friend Sheila.

She and her husband, Jeremy, are two of the most extraordinary people I have the great privilege to know. Sheila and I went to high school together. We lost touch after graduation, but reconnected on Facebook in September 2009.

I was happy to hear from her. I was not prepared to learn that her daughter was in hospice.

On October 19, 2009, Donna died. She was 4.

I didn't have the chance to meet Donna, but she has changed my life.

As her parents wrote in her obituary, "Donna was singular."

She lived a large life in her short time here.

Her parents continue to parent her by doing good things in her name.

And I'm asking you to help me to help them do even more.

Share this post. Share the link to my St. Baldrick's page. Ask everyone you know to share it and contribute what they can, because $100,000 can accomplish a lot of good things.

My love and gratitude to you.

Here are a few words about my philosophy behind such events:

I'm willing to do the "big" thing or the "hard" thing, but I need others to help me.

I've walked 60 miles in Chicago in August for many years for the 3-Day, because folks came through for me and contributed to my fundraising. One year, we walked from St. Charles to Montrose Harbor.

Here's a Google Maps depiction, to give you a sense:

I walked that. In three days. Me and about 2,000 other people. And we raised a lot of money. Thanks to folks like you.

We'll walk the 60 miles. But we need folks like you to write the checks. We can't do it all on our own.

And the same goes for St. Baldrick's.

I'm willing to submit to a shearing if folks show up in a big way with the fundraising for Donna's Good Things.

These locks will not go cheaply. But they will go.

So long as others are willing to join me by helping me get to my goal.

Your contributions honor Donna's memory.

Kindly give what you can and share this post. The more people I reach, the more likely I'll reach my goal.

As ever, I thank you.

New Year, New Cookie ...

2012-01-01T16:01:00.005-06:00

These little beauties are Cream Cheese Shortbread with Toasted Walnuts from the forthcoming One Girl Cookies: Recipes for Cakes, Cupcakes, Whoopie Pies, and Cookies from Brooklyn's Beloved Bakery which you should pre-order right now, because, trust me, you're going to want a copy.

I made a batch yesterday and thought they were a smidgen too salty, so I made another batch today and cut the teaspoon of salt back to 3/4 teaspoon, and yup, they're perfect for my palate now.

They're delightful little cookies: crumbly, sandy, nutty goodness, the perfect beginning to baking in the new year. (You'll note that they dressed for the occasion in the sparkly, cut-glass dish and had a flute of Champagne nearby.)

New Year's Eve ...

2011-12-31T22:10:00.001-06:00

I cast my plan to the wind.

It was a small plan, not much of a plan at all. But when it came time, I knew it wasn't right.

So I sat. And I thought. And then I went to the store.

And I found a lovely pear, tucked among the other pears. Just right, just ripe.

And I wandered among the cheeses and decided on brie.

And I came home and settled in for the night.

I built a board of pear and brie and walnuts that I'd toasted.

And I opened the Champagne I'd bought earlier in the day. (Which is really not Champagne, being domestic, but Champagne is lovely to say.)

And I filled a flute and let the eager effervescence subside and filled it more.

And I choose a cloth napkin.

"I love my life," I said, surveying my picnic.

And I tucked myself onto the sofa. (I spend every New Year's Eve with a certain auteur.)

And I fell under the spell of "Midnight in Paris," which I'd not yet seen, and more happily, about which nothing was known.

And I poured another glass. And enjoyed two of what I'd baked earlier in the day.

And I poured another glass. And remembered my favorite chocolate.

And now my house is quiet and warm and I am just a bit sleepy.

And so I shall go to bed.

And wake to a new year.

What I Learned In 2011 ...

2011-12-29T19:48:00.019-06:00

I started a tradition that didn't last.

I had decided that on New Year's Eve, I would write goals for the new year.

And so, for a few years, I did. I would sit down with a pad of paper and a pencil (I like to write with pencils) and jot down my goals for the year ahead. And then, like the accountants for PricewaterhouseCoopers, I would seal them in an envelope and tuck them away, in the lower left-hand corner of my top dresser drawer.

I retrieved the ones that are still in there. The last goals I wrote were in 2008, looking ahead to 2009. It wasn't the best of times, 2009. Goals were shunned that year.

But life has come around again, as it is wont to do. There have been changes.

And one of the fine things to emerge from this year has been my online acquaintance with David Leite, a charming man from New York City (and sometimes Connecticut), a lover of food and words; a talent worthy of multiple James Beard and other awards; and the namesake of one of my favorite sites.

This week, David wrote a lovely post to bid farewell to the year, not the typical forward-looking list of shoulds and to-dos but a thoughtful look back at what he'd learned over the past year, with nods to each of his teachers.

I loved the idea of reflecting back on the bloggers in my life and what I had learned from each other them. Every morning, all year long, they are part of my early routine. I sip my coffee and feel a little jolt when I see that one of them has posted something new.

So, then, in lieu of goals and to follow David's excellent lead, I offer (in no particular order) my reflections and thanks for what they've taught me throughout the year, whether intended or known or not.

From David Leite, I learned that humility and success are potent partners, not necessary strangers. (His blog is the first one on my list, coincidentally.)

From Deb Perelman, I learned that doing for the love of doing is the key ingredient in the recipe for how to live a happy life.

From Mark Sisson, I learned that wellness comes to those who get out of their own way.

From Gretchen Holt Witt, I learned that a single cookie can change the world.

From Angelo Surmelis, I learned that one of the most extraordinary acts of kindness is encouraging another to follow their dream.

From Patti Digh, I learned that beauty and joy reside in all things.

From Joe Pastry, I learned that baking is magical as both alchemy and science.

From Mike Sowden, I learned that some words can be combined so exquisitely that they are deeply felt, not merely read.

From Jim Marquis, I learned that politics and music make fine bedfellows.

From Roger Ebert, I learned that some circumstances hold only as much power as we give them. Also, that I ascribe to him the finest kicker ever written.

From Natalie Mikolajczak, I learned that life is often best when laughed at, with girlfriends, in the presence of wine.

From Amy Hardin Turosak, I learned that abundance can be found in unexpected places.

From Tom Erdman, I learned that nothing is improbable.

From AndreAnna, I learned that it isn't always easy but that struggles are dwarfed by rewards.

From Mary Tyler Mom, I learned that one woman can possess more grace than I ever believed possible.

From Michele Woodward, I learned that reinvention is not only possible, but sometimes essential.

From Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs, I learned that our stomachs are without a doubt the way to our hearts.

And from Elisa and Nathan Bond, I learned that love truly does conquer all.

I encourage you to spend some moments pondering what those in your life have imparted to you. And I offer my fondest hopes and fervent wishes that you know fulfillment and ease in the new year.

Bounty ...

2011-12-26T22:03:00.005-06:00

Angelo used that word the other day. Bounty. The perfect word to describe the past few days. Week, really.

How fortunate I am.

It was not a holiday of things, though I did receive some very nice gifts. Thoughtful gifts. Meaningful gifts.

It was a holiday of people and places. Of gestures and laughter. Of food and warmth and so much love.

It was a holiday of sitting by the tree, listening to music, sipping wine, dozing off, and thinking, "This is all I want for Christmas." And then having the realization that I had it.

So much of the holidays hurries by in a flurry.

But I made sure to pause and notice the moments. I made sure to open cards next to the tree. I made sure to stand in my driveway late on Christmas Eve and marvel at the stars on such a cold, clear night.

In the face of a bit of frustration, a too-common byproduct of too much to do, I said, "Beth, you get to decide to how feel in this moment" and I cast the frustration aside.

There was so much on which to focus, so much for which to be glad, so much for which to be thankful. Bounty all around me.

My love and appreciation to all those who made that so.

I hope your holidays are rich with all that matters most.

2011-12-23T09:20:00.007-06:00

Peace and love and warmth and calm to you.

Take a few moments to be still and enjoy this beauty from the incomparable Michael Hedges.

(If you need it, the direct URL is here.)

On Behalf Of Women ...

2011-12-19T09:14:00.006-06:00

This morning on Facebook, a friend, a male friend, asked (I'm paraphrasing here) why women of the spousal variety get so bent out of shape if their husbands say some other woman is pretty, especially if they're answering a direct question from their wives.

My reply to him was: "A simple 'She's not as pretty as you' should suffice."

But, of course, that's a simple reply to a complex issue.

And men surely know that women are beleaguered, day in, day out, the messaging, the non-stop messaging that we're not good enough, but just in case you need a bit of a refresher, guys ... .

Have you ever looked at a women's magazine? Not for George Constanza-esque purposes, but to see what women see? If not, do. Hundreds of pages of "You're not good enough," from the airbrushed waif on the cover and the coverlines about how to be thinner, prettier, sexier, and the all-encompassing "hot" to the pages upon pages of women in ads who have been Photoshopped to remove all evidence of offending characteristics like, you know, pores to the content, sparse as it is, that spells out in oh-so-simple-so-why-aren't-you-doing-it terms that we're walking, talking billboards of shortcomings.

(Note: What follows is a representative, not comprehensive, rant.)

Every ad, in print and on screen, every day, tells women that we should be:

Thinner
And not just thinner, but much thinner. Swimsuit-model thin, please. Sure, we occasionally read that men don't want skinny women, except that every ad posted by every man on every dating site says he wants someone "thin" or "fit" or "athletic." Never mind that many of those men bear a striking resemblance to Kevin James.

Speaking of, how many sitcoms feature a big guy married to a hot, skinny woman? On "The King of Queens," when Leah Remini put on a few pounds, it was a big deal. But Kev was a big guy and just fine the way he was.

Then along comes "Mike & Molly," a funny show that dares to feature two people who have the temerity to look like a lot of people in this country, and whoa, the backlash. Insane.

Prettier
Men, here's another bit of insight for you that you probably did not know: The quality of a woman's life is directly proportional to the length of her lashes. Yep. We all need to march ourselves right up to a makeup counter in a ritzy department store and plunk down $30 for tube of black goo. Except that most black goo is the same, so we can also go to the drugstore and only plunk down $8, but then we're faced with the problem of how to choose. In any given makeup aisle in any given drugstore, we find approximately 27,000 brands and types of mascara. But don't worry: Marketers have our best interest at heart. We know that we just look for the most extreme adjectives. Perhaps Maybelline The Colossal Volum' Express Waterproof Mascara will do the trick. (I have no idea what the hell is up with the apostrophe on Volum'.) Yes, that's what we've always wanted: colossal lashes. Because if we don't have to strain our necks to keep our heads upright to counterbalance our colossal lashes, we're clearly doing it wrong.

And speaking of doing it wrong, our lips are too thin. They need to look like they've been stung by a bee. Or some other creature. Lip Venom is an actual product. Or maybe we need Just Bitten. Um, ouch.

And while I'm on the subject of our lips, we also learn that they should be shellacked with high-shine lip gloss. Yes, it looks ridiculous and no one in their right mind would want to kiss us with all that crap on our mouths, but we're probably not thin enough for anyone to be attracted to us in the first place. So we just glop on some bubblegum-pink, sparkle-packed lip gloss and pretend our lives are worth living. P.S. We have learned the hard way that we should not go outside on windy days.

Sexier
We need to be sexier. We get it. We see the ads. This is what they say to us:

Honestly, ladies, you have a Victoria's Secret at a mall near you, don't you? So why don't you spend your days flouncing around in push-up bras and bikini underwear with giant angel wings on your back? Haven't you been paying attention? That's how you snag a man.

Of course, first you have to achieve the body of a Praying Mantis and shell out a few grand for hair extensions and get your lips plumped and your pores eradicated and your skin waxed into oblivion and learn to strut in 5-inch heels, but once you do, impossibly handsome men from fragrance ads will be beating down your door.

And, of course, on top of all of that, most women are expected to work full time, raise a family, plan meals, prepare meals, clean the house, do the laundry, run errands, remember everyone's birthday, plan parties, host parties, and at bathtime, make sure they wrap their angel children in blindingly white, giant fluffy towel hugs.

All of which is to say, men, that women are just looking for a little reassurance from you. If she's asking if you think another woman is pretty, what she's probably saying is that you don't tell her she's pretty often enough.

A little appreciation goes a long way.

Dear USPS: We Need To Talk ...

2011-12-16T09:16:00.002-06:00

Oh, Post Office. I like you. I really do. I don't want you to go away. I try to be on your side, I really do. You got a bum deal, having to fund the future at the detriment of your present. And it's still a damn bargain, forty-four cents to move a piece of mail from one end of the country to the other.

But I need more from you. I need to know I can count on you. Don't make me turn to UPS.

Yes, you have me over a barrel when it comes to standard mail. And I know I don't mail as much as I used to. I pay bills online. I do. It's just easier. And maybe that's left you feeling a bit neglected.

But I still send Christmas cards. Hell, that's 80-some pieces of mail right there. That more than makes up for all the bills I don't send trickling through the system all year long, right?

But about those cards, for a minute. On Tuesday, the 13th, Moo let me know that my cards had been "dispatched" and shared a tracking number for me to check. So I've been checking it. And there have been no updates since the 13th.

Today's the 16th, kids. No updates? Nothing? So is my package sitting in a sort facility, lost? Is it making its way to me? Will it arrive today? I have no idea.

I'm having flashbacks to the year I sent a package to L.A. Dave. It took three weeks. Three weeks? From Chicago to L.A.? Once it finally arrived – a little Christmas tree and ornaments just doesn't have the same impact and oomph in January, by the way – Dave noted, somehow, that it had arrived in L.A. a couple of days before Christmas. It could have been delivered on time. But it sat in a facility for two more weeks?

And what about that book I sent to Australia some years ago? The post person asked me if I wanted to send it via air. Really, I asked? Did we still put things on ships and send them across the ocean thusly?

Apparently, we did. So I ponied up the money, in a year that began with a 2, to send the package via airmail. About $25, as I recall. Not overnight shipping or anything crazy like that. Just not the "slow boat to Australia" rate.

And do you know how long it took to get there?

Ten weeks.

TEN. WEEKS.

For those playing along at home, that's two and a half months.

As in "just shy of three months."

As in "nearly a quarter of a year."

Much more recently, there was the day that I was sitting here, and heard someone on my porch, talking. I looked outside. It was one of my sometimes mail people, a woman, chatting away on her phone. She riffled through the stack of mail in her arms. dumped some in my mailbox, and went on her way.

I retrieved my mail. Only it wasn't my mail. Not most of it. Seven pieces were for the house next door.

Seven.

I get that sometimes a piece gets mixed in here and there. I'm happy to walk it over to my neighbor's or pop it back in the mail when it's for some addressee nowhere near me.

But seven?

I called the postmaster. I don't often complain, but come on.

He knew exactly who I was talking about. Perhaps he'd heard a complaint about her before?

And just now, a friend on Twitter posted about her trials of trying to renew her passport. She wasn't happy to hear the words, "We don't get paid to do that."

Well, at the rate you're going, pretty soon you won't get paid to do anything.

I purposely wait in line to interact with a person at my post office. Yes, that machine in the corner is handy, but I don't want the people at my post office to be automated out of their jobs.

But I'm going to need you to try a little harder to show you care.

And I'll try to send more cards and letters.

But I'm going to need you to deliver the cards to me first.

I can tell you they were in Rhode Island on the 13th.

Beyond that, I have no clue.

Update: OK, post office, credit where it's due. The cards sat in a sort facility for all of Friday but managed to get to me yesterday Saturday. And I had a package to ship, so I ventured to the post office on the last shipping Saturday before Christmas, expecting a line out the door, but was in and out of there in 15 minutes. But my faith isn't fully restored just yet. I put a Delivery Confirmation on the package I mailed. I'm watching you. Let's keep up the good work.

The Soup That Wasn't ...

2011-12-11T08:47:00.007-06:00

Oh, my brain.

It has ideas sometimes. And sometimes, they're even pretty good.

Yesterday, one such idea appeared: "Ooh, you should make soup!", my brain informed me.

Hmm. Yes. Soup. Yesterday was cold. Unseasonably cold. Soup would be a fine idea. I had a lovely vision of me standing in my kitchen, at the counter, dicing onions, dicing carrots, dicing celery. The vision continued over to the stove, of me browning vegetables in my big red Le Creuset dutch oven, adding a splash of wine, deglazing. And then, later, soup, on a back burner, simmering happily and making my home smell great.

Oh, but the cold. I would have to go out into the cold. I had no onions, no carrots, no celery. No soup-making provisions of any kind. Well, wine. I almost always have wine.

I padded into the TV room where, of course, I keep my cookbooks. I have a lot of cookbooks. The TV room has shelves. See? It makes sense.

I pulled a few down, including, inexplicably, Thomas Keller's Bouchon. I wanted to make a simple soup, not soup that would require three days of prep. But Bouchon is a beautiful book. It's always worth my time to look at the pictures.

I nabbed a soup cookbook, too. Surely, in an entire book of soup ideas, one would appeal.

Nah, not really.

I flipped through a Gordon Ramsay book. Conger eel soup? Um, no.

Not that I wouldn't try conger eel soup if someone offered a taste. I'm pretty adventuresome when it comes to food. But at no point in my soup-making visions did my brain conjure the idea of eel. And eel might not be the easiest ingredient to come by in this part of the world. I think we're eel-deficient. That's OK with me.

I landed on a recipe that sounded appealing: beef, mushrooms, barley, red wine, other assorted goodness.

But I'm very persnickety about meat. I don't buy meat at the grocery store. I buy meat at a butcher shop. A butcher shop which contains groceries. So I might be able to pick up all that I needed, or I might need to make two stops, butcher and non.

Hmm.

I decided to go to the store and wander about. I'm a reasonably good cook. Soup is not science. I would buy whatever ingredients appealed to me and make up the recipe as I went along.

Ooh, yes. Good plan.

I put on a warm layer and then my fleece. (I don't like to drive while wearing a coat if I can help it. They're bulky and annoying.) I got in the car and pointed it toward the store.

Once there, I grabbed a little basket. No need for a cart.

The distractions started immediately.

"Oh, brown sugar's still on sale."

No, Beth. You don't need any more brown sugar. You have at least three boxes at home.

"Oh, cute! Christmas clings!"

Beth? You don't affix Santas and reindeer to your windows, no matter how cute.

"But for my car, maybe."

Beth?

"OK."

I wandered through the produce section. Nothing seemed inspiring.

"Frosted shortbread cookies? Why would anyone frost shortbread cookies?"

I was near the bakery at that point. The produce section had failed to lure me into putting anything into my basket. Though the onions looked nice.

I turned the corner. Finally, something on my list.

Golden raisins. Decidedly not for soup.

I headed over to dairy. I needed unsalted butter. It was on sale.

I nabbed two pounds. I ventured up to cream cheese. I stood. I stared. No 3-ounce cream cheeses? Crap.

Not that I can't weigh 3 ounces cut from an 8-ounce brick, but they're handy, those little guys. Pre-measured, hermetically sealed.

I made my way to organic milk. No two-percent of the brand I usually buy. I chose another.

"Ooh, ice cream!"

I'd been wanting ice cream, despite the cold. Nabbed some of that.

I looked down at my basket. It contained a box of raisins, two pounds of unsalted butter, a half-gallon of organic milk, and a carton of mint chocolate chip.

"You can pick up soup on the way home!", my brain said.

But I didn't.

And today? Butter's on the counter, softening. Cookies will be made.

Soup? Nope. But maybe someday.

Holiday Color ...

2011-12-09T08:54:00.000-06:00

I do OK with plants. I can keep 'em around – and alive, even – for years on end.

But poinsettias are my plant nemesis. Every year, I kill those suckers. I don't mean to. It's not malice. I just can't seem to keep them alive.

Last night, though, I arrived home to find this guy on my kitchen counter. And before I got too close a look at it, I thought, "Is it dying already?", as if perhaps just residing in my house is enough to start these poor plants on their road to demise.

But no! It has ruffly leaves! I've never seen such a thing! Neither had my mom, which is why she felt the need to buy them. (She has one, too.)

The red is really much darker and richer, but my camera didn't want to cooperate this morning.

It's not a big plant. It's not entirely wee, but it's small as poinsettias go. A toddler poinsettia, if you will.

It's a lovely bit of holiday color.

Let's see how long I can keep it around.

A Funny Thing Happened ...

2011-12-07T18:28:00.003-06:00

Every so often, I write something that makes me laugh.

Mind you, I am not the toughest audience. And sometimes I think I'm pretty clever.

But mostly, I'm awed by folks who can write funny.

David Sedaris sends me into fits.

And today, David Leite did, too.

"David who?", you may be asking if you are not obsessed with all things food. David Leite, kids. Check out his bio. The man collects James Beard awards like I collect, well, I don't really collect anything. Except, these days, too many empty bottles from wine.

But his recounting – his confession – of this Thanksgiving's mishaps and mayhem in rural Connecticut had me in tears each time I read it. And I read it three times.

He and I are friends on Twitter and I wrote to tell him that with his fabulous voice, he really needs to podcast this sucker, because for food lovers, this tale is the Thanksgiving mashup of " 'Twas The Night Before Christmas" and David Sedaris' "Santaland Diaries." (If you haven't read it, do.)

I thought about including an excerpt, but truly, it needs to be experienced from beginning to end.

Take all necessary precautions. Visit the restroom first. Do not read while consuming a beverage. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Thanks, David. You're a gem.

Cookies Away ...

2011-12-06T20:47:00.002-06:00

Tonight, Angelo hosted a chat on Overstock.com's Facebook page, answering all manner of holiday questions. So many questions, so little time.

Julie, one of the chat attendees, posted: "I need to know how to send cookies 600 miles away arriving un-crumbled and fresh."

Well, hello there, idea for a post.

For all I've written about cookies over the years, I haven't written much about shipping them, mostly because I hand-deliver most of the cookies that I give away.

But there are some simple things you can do to get them to their destination at their cookie best. From the outside in, then.

1. Ship overnight or two-day delivery

Yes, I know: Duh. But time is not a baked good's friend. Wine, yes. Baked goods, no. And since the post office or other shippers can sometimes delay a package, the more you pony up to post it, the likelier it'll get there when it should. Also, if it doesn't, you probably warrant a refund.

2. Seal every edge of the box or shipping container

Just as time is not a baked good's friend, neither is air. Use a few extra inches of shipping tape and seal that baby up to the point where the recipient will curse you for the effort it'll take to open it.

3. Cushion, cushion, cushion, tight, tight, tight

Have you ever seen how packages are handled? The more cushion you have in the box, and the more the cookies are surrounded by that cushion so that the contents of the box don't shift, the better your chances that your cookies will arrive intact. Some folks use air-popped popcorn for packing material. That's a nice idea, as it can be tossed outside for critters at the destination. I keep a stash of packing peanuts from past shipments and use those. Most these days are biodegradable. (Really. They dissolve in water.) Fill the box so that it looks a bit too full. You should have to press down slightly to tape it shut. If you shake it and feel the contents shift, add more filler. It should ship as a solid mass.

4. Wrap, stash, and suck

Wrap cookies in waxed paper in pairs, back to back, so that they support each other. Stash them in a zip-top bag in rows. Stand them up along the bottom of the bag, like a roll of pennies. Then stash another row on top of that. Then another. Most gallon-size zip-top bags can accommodate three rows of cookies. Nestle them in next to each other snugly. Don't cram them if they won't fit, but don't leave excess space for them to move around. Then, lay the bag flat on the counter, seal the zip top almost all the way shut, and stick a drinking straw into the bag part of the way. Suck out as much air as you can, and while you're sucking, pull the straw out (yes, with your mouth) while you finish sealing the bag.

5. Bake cookies that will travel well

Not all cookies are made for travel. Delicate cookies that like to crumble are best enjoyed locally. Heartier cookies – oatmeal, sugar, any cookie with a bit of body – will travel well, assuming the steps above.

Don't be daunted. Bake and ship. Nothing heightens a holiday like tastes from our childhood homes or little bits of decadence.

And as corny as it sounds, cookies baked with love taste infinitely better than anything anyone can buy.

Calm For Christmas ...

2011-12-04T21:09:00.019-06:00

I am sitting in my comfy chair, where I do most of my clacking, listening to Quiet Christmas, a CD I made years ago, a collection of not-necessarily-Christmas music, all lovely instrumentals that suit the notion of winter, the hush of the earth.

The tree is lit and glowing as trees do. It is the only source of light in the room, other than my screen. The wine in my glass is lit from behind, speckles of sparkle, ruby red.

I have no desire to move. Perhaps the holidays will come to me.

Sitting on the ottoman on which I rest my feet is a legal pad and a pencil, a place for ideas-cum-scribblings as they fall out of my head. It is December 4th and I already feel woefully behind.

I am a bit of a holiday schizophrenic. As soon as I start to feel the anxious, oh-my-God-there's-so-much-to-do feelings, I remind myself to stop, to breathe, to let the holiday chips fall where they may. What gets done gets done. The doing is not important. It is the being that matters.

The older I get, the more I want to simplify. Or maybe age isn't the reason. Maybe the reason is life. Maybe everything has gotten so manic, so multi-tasked, so immediate that there is simply no further for it to go except the other way, back toward sanity.

I don't mean to hate on Martha Stewart, but she is, in part, to blame. She and her entertaining empire, leading us to feel as though we are less than if our holidays – hell, our lives – are anything less than camera-ready. She, last I heard, has a staff of about 600. I have, approximately, me.

I have taken to designing my own holiday cards because I can never find ones that are exactly right. I have yet to order them this year. I almost did, the other night, but Moo ditched the contents of my cart when I did not complete the transaction. Not that it will be difficult to create them again, but I wonder if I should take Moo's action as a sign. Maybe skip the cards this year, Beth. Think of the time you'll save addressing all of them.

I like to receive cards so it only seems right that I should send them, but maybe this year, I won't. Maybe. Oh, there goes another twinge of guilt.

I have, at least, gratefully, shed the massive holiday baking. Times have changed. Many of those for whom I used to bake are no longer in my life. And the year I baked 14 varieties? Well, that was just insane. Now I sit down with my pad and pencil, list out those for whom I'll bake, and decide what best they'll like. Folks will get a cookie that I know is their favorite, or one I think they'll like to try. Or maybe a few of a few kinds. But the marathon baking is behind me. The joy was getting lost, somewhere in those 10-hour days.

Ideas have been had for gifts. Gifts must now be procured. The wrapping is always welcome. I love to wrap. And I'll help my mom with preparations for Christmas Eve, because I know how much effort it requires, even though she seems to manage it with ease. Christmas Eve is the big dance in my family. Christmas Day is more sedate. My mom was mortified the year she asked me what we should have for Christmas dinner and I replied, "Leftovers."

But I like our lazy Christmas Day, watching TV, grazing on snacks, staying in pajamas, taking a nap. I have no desire to prep a fancy dinner, and Christmas Eve always contains too much food. We have plenty left over and that's fine with me.

I like quiet. I like doing for the joy of doing, not doing with a sense of dread. We pile too much on our holiday plates of to-dos. I don't want to go to the mall. I don't want to fight the traffic. I want to give simple, thoughtful gifts, ordered from artists and brought to me by UPS, then wrapped with care and offered with love. I want to sit with my niece in front of the fireplace and be still and savor the tradition of it.

I want to go for a walk and admire the holiday lights and smile at the homes that are lit with candy colors and hope that there are kids inside who will grow up and remember the magic of homes that glowed. Our house was lit from top to bottom when I was young, colored lights, big bulbs and small, and a kitschy collection of decorations: the big plastic candles flanking the front door, the three bells than hung on the front of the house, lit from within, plugged in who knows where.

These days, all I want for Christmas is calm. Peace and calm and warmth and love.

Good Times, The Year In Review ...

2011-12-04T09:53:00.004-06:00

In November last year, Angelo asked me if I'd like to contribute to his blog, which was very kind, and we hatched a plan. We'd begin in January, after the holiday hubbub, and I could submit posts as frequently or infrequently as I'd like, about any kind of baked good.

My brain settled on cookies, as they're kind of my thing, and monthly, as that felt like a good frequency.

We did indeed hit the ground running in January, and this morning, he posted December's cookie. A year's worth of cookies, done.

Thirteen cookies, which I love, as 13 is my favorite number. I created two cookies for May, hence why a year's worth of cookies does not add up to 12.

In 2012, the cookies may continue. Or I may take on yeast. Many folks think making bread – and all its yeast-risen friends – are too difficult for them to even attempt. But that's simply not true. I learned how to make bread when I was 8. And here's the big secret to yeast doughs: so long as you don't kill the yeast, you really can't screw anything up.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

For fun, I thought I'd compile all of the cookies from this year-long escapade into one post.

Angelo is an oh-so-gracious host and I'm happy to bake for someone who has such a deep fondness for the magic that happens when flour and sugar combine. He's my fellow kitchen alchemist.

January

Shortbread Ottomans

February

Componentized Chocolate Chips

March

Liz Lemon Cookies

April

Walnut Cheese Cookies

May

Dark Chocolate Espresso Biscotti and Sablés

June

Sesame Cookies with Roditis Cream Cheese Dip

July

Parmesan Toffee Cookies

August

Drumstick Cookies

September

Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich Cookies

October

Pecan Crispies with Pumpkin Bourbon Cream Cheese Dip

November

Bittersweet Baci

December

Almond Spice Drops

Good Times, December Edition ...

2011-12-04T09:09:00.000-06:00

The December cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Almond Spice Drops, a take on windmill cookies, but in softer-cookie form.

Cream Cheese Cookies ...

2011-11-30T16:20:00.008-06:00

I saw this recipe at food52.com and I put it out of my head.

I am a sucker for a simple cookie. Shortbread? Three ingredients. Butter. Flour. Sugar. What more do you need?

A bit of cream cheese, perhaps? A little salt?

Yesterday, Angelo tweeted the link to these cookies. And I clicked. And there was nothing more to be done.

This morning, I put a stick of unsalted butter and three ounces of cream cheese on the counter to soften.

And now I am sitting at the kitchen counter, very aware that I am losing the light outside, but hoping that I can snap a shot of these lovelies in time.

Dangerous. Dangerous, I tell you, this recipe.

Five ingredients. Five minutes of prep. Twelve minutes of baking.

No good can come of this.

I must remember not to keep cream cheese on hand.

A couple of notes: The next time I make these, I'll lessen the amount of sugar by a few tablespoons. These are a bit too sweet for me. I want more of the cream cheese to come through. And I'm baking these at 375 and for a few minutes longer than called for in the recipe, as 12 minutes does nothing to brown the edges in my oven. But they're delicious, dangerously so, and the texture is both crumbly-sandy and chewy.

The Day Of Lost Souls ...

2011-11-25T09:34:00.012-06:00

Is "curmudgeon" gender-neutral?

I may be old.

I don't do Black Friday. Ever. And the more insane it's become, the more I sit, smugly satisfied, in my home. Right now, the coffee has just finished brewing and there is sun on my face. I am not cursing at a driver who just took my parking space. And I am not standing at a register in front of a tired worker who had to sacrifice part of his or her Thanksgiving so I could save an extra 20 percent.

I did not set my alarm for 2 a.m. so I could head out into a dark, cold November morning to claim a door-buster deal at 3. And I sure as hell did not camp out.

But this morning, as I was making my usual Internet rounds, I saw these, featured on a blog that I read, touting yet another "deal" site. And I just about lost my cool.

Cupcake stands?! Are you kidding me with this?!

And here's the sales copy from the site (to which I am not linking, intentionally):

We are extremely excited about our gorgeous deal today… Are you ready?

These cupcake stands make sweet cupcakes even sweeter. Yummy :o) They were featured in Brides Magazine this last August and they caused a huge buzz. So Cuuuuute!

A set of six, if you're wondering, costs $34.50 + $5 shipping.

So, $40. Not including any applicable tax.

Forty bucks. For six ceramic cupcake stands. Because ... why?

Do you know how many people are hovering just above the poverty line in this country?

Now, I get it: People are entitled to spend their money on whatever they want, right?

Right.

But we all know that a lot of the spending that goes on in this country is credit. I'm guilty of it, too. More so than many. Not having a job from time to time will bring about the need to put plastic into play.

But cupcake stands? Cupcake stands, people. I have to draw the line at cupcake stands.

A plate will no longer do? Your grandmother's cake stand? Perhaps a pretty silver tray?

Stop it. For the love of God, stop it.

John Pinette does a great riff on needless gifts. "Oh, a panini maker! How did you know?!"

My mom makes paninis. They're delicious. You know what she uses to press them? Bricks wrapped in aluminum foil.

Bricks are heavy. They press those suckers right down.

I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but no, you don't need a chocolate fountain just because you can buy one at Bed Bath & Beyond.

Mankind has existed for millennia without owning chocolate fountains. I'm quite confident that not only can we endure without them, we should.

I understand that I am coming at this from the perspective of an adult, an adult who has a lot and doesn't want any more. And I understand that Christmas – commercial Christmas, that is – is for kids.

I remember the excitement of Christmas morning, running into the living room and seeing it laden with presents. (I grew up in the time of bean-bag chairs. Those puppies came in huge boxes and took up a lot of visual space.) My father used to fire up the Super 8 camera with the light as bright as the sun and film us opening our gifts.

You should see the dance I did one year when I realized that my new panda bear had a radio in its back!

Thinking back on it, I wonder if Dad had sped up the camera or if I was just frantically happy.

I think I was just that happy. If I tried to move like that first thing in the morning now, I'd pull something.

But as I was saying: Yes. Christmas. Kids. Excitement. Sweet.

My concern is that from the youngest of ages, we're grooming them to go for quantity, not quality. I knew a kid some years ago who would tear into a gift, barely glance at the contents, and then dive into the pile for the next present to unwrap. It wasn't about the gifts in that moment, it was about "more." And his little dervish self would rip everything open in about a minute or two, and then sit there, surrounded by new loot, disappointed that there wasn't more to open.

The gifts didn't seem to matter to him. That he had new things to play with was lost.

Sad, isn't it?

On the other side of that spectrum, a woman whose blog I read allows each of her children to choose three things each year.

Three.

I love that. Because since they will only be getting three things each year, they really think about what they want. And they dream up really fascinating ideas. And their mom, in turn, fulfills their wishes.

Now, granted, they have a fascinating mom who has created a beautiful, interesting home, and instilled in them appreciation and value for well-made things.

This woman, I am sure, would share my disgust at the notion of cupcake stands. I love that she thinks through how gifts would be wrapped, coming from the North Pole. Wooden boxes filled with reindeer moss for cushion and tied with real ribbon. Plush friends perched under the tree, waiting to be greeted, not suffocated in a cardboard box. I adore the thought and care she puts into the holidays to make them real and magical.

All of which is somewhat idealized, I know. I know that there are families who struggle, who want to give their kids something for Christmas and some things can be had very cheaply at big-box and dollar stores. But that's become almost our entire consumer culture: lots of stuff, for cheap.

The aforementioned mom rails against that mentality. She loves thrift stores and she has an amazing eye. She also reports that a lot of stuff ends up in thrift stores in its original packaging expressly because people simply have too much stuff and they jettison it in huge quantities. I admire her efforts to get folks off the more-more-more merry-go-round and put more thought into gifts, and save money, and save the planet.

These days, I only want practical things. For my birthday, I asked for rubber spatulas.

Consumable things are nice, too. I would happily receive a bottle of wine to share with someone over dinner.

(I'm just remembering that we used to visit my dad's mom on Christmas and take her a box of groceries. She was thrilled with canisters of coffee and the like. When anyone dared buy her actual gifts, even practical things like sheets or towels, she got angry. When she died, my parents found a lot of those items, still in their original gift boxes. She never used them. To her, what she had been using was still good. Even if it wasn't. One year, someone sent a pretty Christmas arrangement of flowers. She was annoyed that she'd have to add water to them from time to time. Message received, grandma. So we gave up on buying "things" and bought her food. I do believe I'm turning into my paternal grandmother. But I still like fluffy towels. Fluffy towels would be OK with me.)

All of which is to say, I would like for the holidays to be about people, about the spirit of giving in meaningful ways: spending time together, helping those in need, cooking for those we love, appreciating all that we have.

That's what I want more of in my life, anyway. Not a Lexus in the driveway with a giant red bow.

So instead of buying something for someone for the sake of buying them something, make this the year you put that money to better use.

Help someone.

Feed someone.

Provide someone with clean water on the other side of the world.

Loan $25 to an entrepreneur and then, when the loan is repaid, loan it again.

Buy a family a goat.

There are many, many ways to do good in the world.

And that is money well spent.

Giving Thanks ...

2011-11-24T07:45:00.002-06:00

It is grey in my living room, barely lit from the gloomy light outside.

And suddenly, the space beside me looks bare. My mind expects a Christmas tree.

But not until tomorrow.

For today deserves its due, its complete and glorious due, for the reminder it brings to be thankful.

Thankful for another year.

Thankful for family.

Thankful for friends.

Thankful for wellness.

Thankful for warmth.

Thankful for comfort.

Thankful for clarity.

Thankful for kindness.

Thankful for all who share this life's stage and conjure ever-more-intricate and fascinating stories.

I am awed and grateful every day.

May the same be true for you.

Bald Move ...

2011-11-21T10:47:00.010-06:00

I am going to have someone shave my head.

I am going to raise $100,000 for St. Baldrick's and when I do, I am going to have someone shave my head at the St. Baldrick's event to benefit Donna's Good Things.

Not "I am going to try to raise $100,000 ... ," I am going to raise $100,000 for St. Baldrick's to benefit Donna's Good Things.

How, you ask?

With your help. And the help of everyone you tell. And the help of everyone I know in the media who will help me spread the word.

This is Donna. This is Donna's Cancer Story, written by Donna's Mama, my amazing friend Sheila.

She and her husband, Jeremy, are two of the most extraordinary people I have the great privilege to know. Sheila and I went to high school together. We lost touch after graduation, but reconnected on Facebook in September 2009.

I was happy to hear from her. I was not prepared to learn that her daughter was in hospice.

On October 19, 2009, Donna died. She was 4.

I didn't have the chance to meet Donna, but she has changed my life.

As her parents wrote in her obituary, "Donna was singular."

She lived a large life in her short time here.

Her parents continue to parent her by doing good things in her name.

And I'm asking you to help me to help them do even more.

Share this post. Share the link to my St. Baldrick's page. Ask everyone you know to share it and contribute what they can, because $100,000 can accomplish a lot of good things.

My love and gratitude to you.

Designed For Doing ...

2011-11-20T08:19:00.001-06:00

Ow.

Twinges of ow. That's what I'm feeling this morning. Twinges of ow and stiffness.

Geez, I'm out of shape.

Not that I've ever been in really great shape. I've never been one for exercise. In grade school, I loathed the President's Physical Fitness Something or Other. And I loathed the 600 most of all. Running around the school parking lot three times. Running? Please. I started out in a half-hearted jog and then walked. And pull ups? I was expected to do pull ups? Please. If I ever have to claw my way up a building's facade or face falling to my death, I'm going to count on adrenaline to kick in, but until that day comes, no, I can't do a pull up. And I'm OK with that.

But yesterday, I consulted my to-do list and then I consulted the weather, and with the slight threat of rain last night, I decided that I best get my outdoor chores done Saturday, lest rain prevent me from doing them on Sunday.

And here we are.

Ow.

But my yards look fabulous. All my outdoor chores are done for the season and I do not have to think about cutting my grass again until March. Maybe April. One never knows with the snows in these parts.

My back could be more pleased with me. An Advil last night probably would have been a good idea. But for all the bending and stooping and crouching and carrying I did yesterday, it's not nearly as pissed as I expected it to be.

All of which was reminding me yesterday that I really need to get back to some semblance of fitness.

In the closet off my office, I have taped on the wall the photo of Hilary Swank that ran in Vanity Fair when she did "Million Dollar Baby." The Hollywood issue, perhaps. She's running on a beach. She has the most lithe body I've ever seen. It's amazing. It's inspiring.

Mind you, it's taped on a wall where I rarely see it. But when I go in that closet, she impresses me every time.

I can't imagine I will ever look that way. Apparently, running would be involved in achieving that look and as I'm known for saying, "I don't run unless chased."

But I miss how I felt when I worked with Brandon the Hunky Trainer. Not that I shall be rekindling my love-hate relationship with him. I never hated him, mind you, but a couple of those machines he made me use were bastards.

Today, I have much laundry to tackle. And between me and my washer and dryer are many stairs. Eleven, I believe. Eleven down and eleven up. All day long.

I ask my back to cooperate.

Or maybe Hilary Swank will stop by.

Richly Blessed ...

2011-11-13T21:55:00.004-06:00

I am a fortunate woman, that's who I am.

Winding down another birthday, thinking back over the past few days.

I have many wonderful friends and an equally wonderful family.

I am at that age where birthdays are a pleasant notion, not the excitement-inducing events of my youth.

A long, leisurely lunch on Friday with friends. A long, leisurely dinner with one brother last night. Coffee and a little nosh with my folks this morning, then dinner with them, along with my other brother and his family, tonight.

Food and wine and variations on cake.

My mother arrived this morning with a mixed bouquet of rubber spatulas and roses.

Yes, you read that right.

I don't want for anything, but I had mentioned recently that I need more rubber spatulas – a baker can never have enough – so she bought lovely white roses for me, and tucked rubber spatulas among them. My mom is clever that way.

And there were other gifts from her and my dad and others, none necessary but all very kind.

And the kindest cards. I am awed by the expressions of love.

And a flurry of emails and posts and tweets.

I am richly blessed, indeed.

And most of all for simply being here for another year.

Ever since losing Dave so suddenly, I am acutely, acutely aware of the gift of every birthday.

Please do see them thusly.

Be grateful for every one that comes your way.

Here's to another year of discovery and fun.

My love to all who shared the days.

I thank you.

Makes Beth Happy, November 10 ...

2011-11-10T19:13:00.005-06:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Lump!
As if you need a reason why? It's awesome! It's fun to say! Lump!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Saint Joseph's Day Cream Puffs
aka Puffs Filled with Toasted Walnut Cream

Toasted walnuts? Cream? Puffs? Sign me up.

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Everglades Round Tray

I don't need a lime-green, faux-croc tray, but it makes me happy.
(Though I'd be even happier if someone would have thought to cheat that seam to the back.)

Good Times, November Edition ...

2011-11-06T13:10:00.000-06:00

The November cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Bittersweet Baci. From an unlikely inspiration, as inspirations for cookies go.

Some People Just Don't Care ...

2011-11-05T00:13:00.011-05:00

Jesus. It's so simple.

That's the amazing thing about revelations: They're not intricate. They're not complex. They're simple. They're right there, on the face of things. Like "He's just not that into you." No mystery. Plain as day.

Puttering around the kitchen this morning, I was half listening to "House" coming from the other room. It was the all-Cuddy episode, the show that was shot from her perspective for a change. In it, she, the dean of medicine, is doing battle against Atlantic Net Insurance. She wants a 12-percent bump in hospital reimbursement. Atlantic Net is offering 4.

She finds the CEO, having lunch, and this exchange ensues:

Cuddy: While Atlantic Net Insurance has a marketing budget that's more than our Pediatric's ICU and Transplant Units combined, your PGA sponsorship could pay for our Walk-In Clinic. And the money you spend to fuel your two private jets could fund our air ambulance service for the next 3 years.

CEO: Your point being?

Cuddy: Your growth may be good for your bottom line. But ours allows us to save lives. And I would rather not have to announce to the press how selective your company appears to be when it comes to cutting costs.

CEO: Morgan was right. You are one tough gal. You can portray me as a rich bastard in the press all you want, just as long as I stay rich.

Today, I heard that line of dialogue as if for the first time.

And it finally hit me, with regard to all that is going on in the world today:

Some people just don't care.

Period.

Some people just don't care.

My brain has been trying to comprehend how some people can be so selfish, so consumed with the pursuit of wealth, so detached from the plight of so many.

And now I get it: Some people just don't care.

Some people just don't care that millions of Americans are unemployed. Some people just don't care that people have been and will be evicted from their homes. Some people just don't care that so many citizens are unable to afford health care.

Some people just don't care.

Of course, now my brain is trying to comprehend why some people just don't care. Is empathy learned? Is it generosity genetic? Why are some wealthy people, like Warren Buffett, saying, "Please, raise my taxes. Make me pay more" while others think they're nuts? Why are Republicans in Congress so blatantly protecting the rich while making ordinary Americans suffer?

Because some people just don't care.

Now, there may be larger issues at play. Maybe these people see their entire worth as human beings reflected in their bank statements. Maybe their only validation can be found in their ability to purchase a $6,000 shower curtain. For one of their bathrooms. In one of their homes.

Or maybe to think that way gives them too much benefit of the doubt.

Maybe they're just selfish. Period.

Me, I give what I can. Which is not to pat myself on the back, but to illustrate a point. I don't have a job at the moment. Not a "real" job. I freelance, and sometimes, there is money coming my way and sometimes, there is not. But the last time I sat down to write out bills, I wrote a check to a food bank that was looking for contributions toward providing food to families for Thanksgiving.

It wasn't a big check, but it was something. And I could have justified not sending any money. But I had a few dollars in my checking account that, at the moment, I could spare. My debt will not be erased by that $25, but if a family has a meal for Thanksgiving because of it, in my heart, that is money well spent.

And in a larger sense, I believe that generosity is repaid. Not literally. I do not expect to happen into $25 because I sent $25 away. But in the end, everything can be reduced to love or fear. Keeping that $25 would have been an act of fear, fear that more money would not be coming my way. Letting that $25 go was an expression of the belief that money will continue to come to me.

Maybe some people don't know that. Maybe some people don't believe that. Or maybe some people just don't care.

I find that immensely sad.

I was raised otherwise. Or I'm predisposed otherwise.

And I'm glad.

Dry Cleaning, Past And Peanut ...

2011-11-04T17:33:00.003-05:00

Doreen is an accountant by day, a job for her I find fascinating because she is so much more interesting than "accountant' conjures.

(Then again, so is Nat – Hi, Nat! – but hey, someone has to add up the world's numbers and make sure they balance. Then again again, my mom – Hi, Mom! – always amazed me with her 10-key dexterity, and while she wasn't an accountant, per se, she did the books for my parents' business and neither of them ever ended up in trouble with the IRS. But Mom doesn't come off as the numberly sort, either. But I digress.)

Anyhoo, Doreen has a keen eye for the interesting and the silly and the incongruous and the absurd, so it came as no surprise, on a recent visit, that she had kept aside for me two dry-cleaning bags she'd recently received.

Behold, the 1960s!

The copy reads: "Cuddly & Soft AS A KITTEN – Sweaters and Knitwear Luxuriously Dry Cleaned – Whether it's Lush Angora or a Man-Made Fabric... your Sweaters and Knitwear never had it so soft. From our Custom Cleaning Process to our Personalized Finishing Service... a labor of careful attention to the smallest detail is our rule. P.S. You can check the Cuddly Softness of your freshly cleaned Knitwear and Sweater against the next Kitten you meet."

Meow!

I love that there's a P.S. The Excessive Capitalization is Unnecessary, but to Each His Own.

On the other hand, we have this one, which looks like it was drawn by Charles Schulz:

"LOOK GREAT, FEEL GREAT IN YOUR FRESH CLEAN CLOTHES – EXPERTLY CLEANED WITH CARE"

I never really thought about the need for someone to design dry-cleaning bags. Love the juxtaposition, though.

Thanks, Do!

Aim Higher ...

2011-11-03T09:55:00.001-05:00

I'm not going to write about her because the last thing she needs is another search result in Google.

But you know who I'm talking about, the woman who deposed Paris from the famous-for-being-famous throne.

What a circus. What a joke.

My brain keeps asking, "Why does anyone care?"

Why the television show? Why the merchandise?

When did vapidity become a virtue?

I was sad the night the world learned that Steve Jobs had died. But I was glad that so many people cared.

Yes, let's mourn the loss of a visionary. Let's celebrate all that he contributed to the way we live.

More of that, please.

More substance.

Of course, stories are emerging about how difficult he could be, how demanding.

Well, yes, I expect so.

It takes a lot of effort to change a part of the world. You need people to help you who are up to the task.

But the awesome thing about Jobs is that he set the bar so high because he knew people could reach it.

More of that, please.

In high school, English Teacher Dave used his own grading scale. I've written about Dave before.

Dave used to piss me off.

But his expectations made me work harder.

Back in the day, I thought of it as "getting" an A out of him.

Oh, Beth.

I didn't realize at the time that I was getting an A out of myself.

I wasn't making him give up anything. He was making me try harder.

And I am so grateful for that. I still thank him from time to time.

Which is not to say that there isn't a place for fun, for escape. Of course there is.

I am not the self-righteous sort who proudly proclaims that they don't own a TV.

I like TV. I like "House." I like "The Daily Show." I like a few things on HGTV.

But kids. Really? "The Real Housewives of ... ":

... New Jersey ...

... New York City ...

... Miami ...

... DC ...

... Orange County ...

... Atlanta ...

and ... Beverly Hills?

Really?

And "Big Rich Texas" and "Toddlers and Tiaras" and "Jerseylicious" and "Jersey Shore"?

Why?

Just why?

What is the world gleaning from any of this?

I understand that it's the junk-food equivalent of programming.

But we can't live on junk food. Look at us. We're trying. It's not working out well.

And so the alliterative one's announcement this week made me a little nuts.

All that money, wasted. Well, not for her. She'll do just fine.

But where does it end?

I used to joke with my friends that "Idiocracy" is here, but it's not really a joke anymore.

My Fisher-Price Phone ...

2011-10-29T19:08:00.004-05:00

I have only three contacts in my phone: a mouse, a kitty, and a puppy.

I'm being ridiculous, of course. I can call a bunny, too. But my phone, for all its bells and whistles back in its day, is now one generation removed from a tin can and a piece of string.

Today, out and about, I turned it on [I keep it off for two reasons: a) no one ever calls me on my cell phone, and 2) I don't want to get hip cancer from leaving the thing turned on while it's in my pocket] to snap a couple of shots of a pretty tree:

And when I tried to post it online, my battery crapped out. That fast. Yes, how dare I take a picture and expect to post it.

It's beyond time for me to get a new phone. This poor baby just can't take much more. The battery cover pops off. The battery drains faster than Charlie Sheen doing a line of coke. The reception sucks. (Though it may suck on a new phone, too.)

I thought about driving to the phone store, right then. I thought about biting the iPhone bullet once and for all. Data plan be damned. Fine, send me a ridiculous bill every month.

But I didn't.

I've been waffling about a new phone for a couple of years. I don't know what I want. I don't need an iPhone. I don't want that level of connectivity. My palms are practically fused to my laptop as it is. Do I really want more access?!

But in this era of smart phones, "regular" phones truly do have all the heft of something by Fisher-Price. There's no there there. They don't feel like they'll be able to make a call. And also, while I know I can recycle devices, I hate the idea of replacing electronics. This is my fourth phone ever. Which is not such a big deal, considering the first one came in a bag with a battery the size of a box of concession-stand Sour Patch Kids.

Yes, I keep each phone for a long time.

But the time has come for me to heave myself into the next tier of cell-phone technology.

What should I get?

From Whence I Come ...

2011-10-23T22:08:00.013-05:00

I grew up in a modest house. A bungalow on a street of bungalows, dot dot dot, one after another, like Monopoly houses, not hotels.

There was a time when my parents struggled, but that time was before me. I don't remember any lack in my childhood. Not that I was spoiled. Though I did sometimes badger my mother until she gave in.

But I moved from that modest house, with my parents, to a slightly less-modest house. A bit more square footage, perhaps. Certainly more land. That's where my parents live today.

I lived at college for two years in modest dorms. Nice dorms. New. But small.

My first apartment was a studio. And I loved it. Though eventually the day came when I thought it was time to have a grown-up bed. So I found a one-bedroom apartment and that felt like a luxury. It was nice to have a modest bedroom, but the dining room, while rather normal in size, dwarfed my studio-scaled kitchen table and chairs.

And then I bought a house, which felt extravagant. So much space for one person. A basement I wouldn't even use. I've since furnished it a bit but it rarely sees any activity.

The first winter in my house was especially guilt-ridden. I thought of the people sleeping in the streets, on lower Wacker, hoping they found shelters, hoping they'd be OK. Why should I have a whole, warm house, I asked myself, when so many people had nowhere to call their own?

I'm still here, of course. I haven't sold my house. Not in this market. I've thought about downsizing again. I probably will someday.

But this weekend, I've been vexed by stories and shows I've seen that speak to a level of excess I can't understand.

I saw a story in the Wall Street Journal yesterday about a couple who's having trouble, in this economy, finishing construction on their 90,000-square-foot home.

No, that is not a typo. Yes, that's right: a 90,000-square-foot home.

They bought Segways – one for each member of the family – to get around. Inside.

Here's a thought: When bipedalism is not a sufficient mode of transportation for you to get from one end of your home to the other, perhaps your home is too big.

They're building a 7,200-square-foot ballroom. That can host 500 people. It will have balconies.

Most people I know don't live in a 7,200-square-foot house.

Doesn't your heart just bleed for them? At the moment, they're having to make do with their 26,000-square-foot mansion. Such injustice in the world.

And earlier, flipping channels, I stopped on "House Hunters," against my better judgment. The house hunters on "House Hunters" always irk me. But this episode featured a search on the Gold Coast, and I'm always up for seeing what promise to be amazing spaces that I can't afford.

The house hunters in this episode, from what I was able to glean, were two wealthy, single guys who wanted a place to crash in Chicago. This would not be their primary residence. One of them had at least one home, in L.A. The other had at least one home, in Las Vegas. But they were looking for a landing spot in Chicago, and their budget was $1.5 mil.

Yup, $1.5 million for a bachelor pad in the Windy City.

Naturally, they brought along their friend and designer for guidance.

You know how that is.

The first place they saw was a runaway bargain at only $750,000, which would allow them to renovate to their hearts' content.

The apartment had some amazing views. One exposure overlooked The Fourth Presbyterian Church on Michigan Avenue, a protected structure. No chance that a high-rise will ever go up on that spot and spoil the sight line.

The kitchen was perfectly lovely if a bit traditional. White cabinets, stainless steel.

Of course, the friends and the designer agreed, it would all have to be torn out. All of it. For the look they'd want to achieve.

Well, yes, of course. How could a couple of club-going guys, one of whom had tiger-striped hair, who wouldn't be in town very often, possibly abide a kitchen that was entirely modern and functional but just didn't say anything about them?

I had to turn off the TV.

I can't bear to see any more of that shit.

What is wrong with people? How self-absorbed, how narcissistic, how superficial can humans be?

Where the hell has substance gone?

At the end of their lives, will those two bachelors consider their lives well lived because they had a designer kitchen? Who are they trying to impress? What are they trying to say? Why would they want to spend time with people who value such things? How do they spend time with themselves?

The vapidity. I can't take it.

I know I'm no nun. I have my share of comfort compared to many in the world.

But a 90,000-square-foot house? One and a half million on a place to stop by and nurse a hangover?

All I keep thinking is, "Don't you know how much good you can do with that kind of money?"

And maybe they're philanthropic. Maybe they are. But a 90,000-square-foot home? How does anyone justify building a 90,000-square-foot home?

I just don't understand. And I'm quite sure that if I ever came into a gross amount of money, my brain wouldn't suddenly say, "You know what you need, Beth? A palace with 23 bathrooms and a 20-car garage."

My house has one bathroom. And I can touch opposite walls without fully extending my arms. Eyeballing it, I'd say it's 5' x 8'. That includes the tub.

Sometimes, I think it might be nice to have a second bathroom. For when I have guests. That might be my next extravagance.

Someday.

Makes Beth Happy, October 20 ...

2011-10-20T20:22:00.000-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Nubs!
Oh, I just giggle and giggle ... .

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Lamb Tagine in a Roasted Whole Pumpkin

I love lamb. Love it. And I love this presentation. And I love that David Leite, the namesake of the above-linked site, refers to this dish as "a one-pot meal...with a hat." Who doesn't want dinner that arrives at the table wearing a hat?!

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

French Kitchen Island

Mind you, I have no need for a French Kitchen Island, and that is due to a lack of space, not the island's $999.00 price tag, but I love the look of it. I want to roll out pastry on it. And I think the lamb tagine – sporting its pumpkin hat – would look very at home on it.

2011-10-17T15:05:00.001-05:00

The Scourge Of Our Airwaves ...

2011-10-16T22:14:00.003-05:00

I am seething through my tears.

I am nauseous, sick with rage.

How can such an evil, heartless, soulless, repugnant man have the ear of millions of Americans? How can he spew such disgusting filth so recklessly? How can people be so mindless and believe him?

Tonight, on Facebook, my friend Sandy posted this photograph and this story:

"This 8-year-old, little Helen, survived after Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army shut all her family and friends into their huts and burned them down. She cried in my arms for 45 minutes. Her pain is so great. Now, the USA is finally sending 100 troops to help end the horrors of this brutal war, which has been waged against children like Helen and their families, for over 20 years. It has destroyed so many hearts. Please pray for the people of Uganda, and for the success and safety of the troops. Please pray for peace. And if someone says that Obama is wrong about this, think about this little girl. Her scarred arms and haunted eyes... Keep her in your heart, and pray for peace."

And later, unfathomably – unfathomably – I read this headline: Rush Limbaugh Endorses the Lord's Resistance Army.

Which reminded me that I had read this headline – Limbaugh's Latest Smear: Obama Is "Target[ing] Christians" In Uganda – but hadn't clicked through.

Until tonight.

That this man has achieved such a disgusting measure of wealth and "fame" and has attracted such a vast following of listeners who parrot his bigoted, hate-filled, disgusting but most importantly, in this case, ignorant views in lieu of thinking for themselves makes me weep for this country.

Limbaugh supports the murderers of the Lord's Resistance Army because they battle Muslims. And Limbaugh hates Muslims.

And Obama is sending troops to Uganda in an attempt to quell the horrors committed by the LRA, and Rush hates Obama, ergo "Obama Invades Uganda, Targets Christians."

That is the headline on Rush's website, with the transcript of his show.

After attacking Obama, he said this:

"Is that right? The Lord's Resistance Army is being accused of really bad stuff? Child kidnapping, torture, murder, that kind of stuff? Well, we just found out about this today. We're gonna do, of course, our due diligence research on it. But nevertheless we got a hundred troops being sent over there to fight these guys – and they claim to be Christians."

That's right: Rush went on the air and attacked the President of the United States without having any knowledge of the reality of the situation, without having any knowledge that the Lord's Resistance Army engages in "child kidnapping, torture, murder, that kind of stuff."

"... [T]hat kind of stuff."

Like burning Helen's friends and family alive.

Rush Limbaugh defended the murderers because doing so allowed him to attack the president.

I cannot fully comprehend how any human being can, simultaneously, be so vitriolic and so stupid.

Thankfully, there is Sandy. Recently, in a recommendation, I said of my friend, "Sandy is a quiet force of nature. Her gentle demeanor belies a woman who is fiercely committed to helping those in the greatest need. ... [S]he's built an impressive career in the non-profit sector that has taken her all over the world. She is kind and talented and compassionate. There may be nothing she can't do."

She is one of my heroes.

Tonight, I thanked her for being there for Helen, for showing her compassion in the face of unfathomable suffering.

It is the one thing that calms me, the image of my beautiful friend holding a grieving child, the knowledge that there is still great good and love in the world.

I focus on that image and breathe.

And try to find pity, somewhere, anywhere inside of me, for a man who will never know such grace.

Good Times, October Edition ...

2011-10-15T07:03:00.004-05:00

The October cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Pecan Crispies and Pumpkin Cream Cheese Bourbon Dip. Because Angelo really loves pumpkin and pecans. Which I just found out on Thursday. And the bourbon? Well, why not?

On The Occasion Of My Upcoming Anniversary ...

2011-10-11T19:39:00.000-05:00

"Was it yesterday?" I wondered, with a start.

October 10th?

No. A search of my email revealed that the date was October 15th.

The "10" in my mind must have come from "October."

It was this month, that much I knew.

How curious that I didn't remember the day.

You would think, wouldn't you, that I would remember the day I said goodbye to a person who had been in my life for more than 15 years.

You would think that I would remember the day that I had dreaded and avoided for so long, so sure was I that I would never be able to handle the pain.

And yet, in the end, I learned this: It is easier than expected to say goodbye to someone who wasn't really there.

I am not about all things being equal. I am not that friend who expects you to pay for coffee because, the last time, I picked up the tab. I reach for the check, always. I am happy to treat.

I bake for people because I love to bake. And because I love them. Sometimes, I do it to repay a kindness that they've done to me. But often, I do it for no reason other than to please them. Most people like the unexpected. Especially if sugar is involved.

But when a relationship grows too lopsided – that was his word for it, "lopsided" – it begins to teeter.

And then it falls.

It does not, however, vanish. It is still there. It may be lying in the dirt, but it is still there.

So, I could have stood there, standing over it, mourning it, rueing it.

Or I could walk away.

Which is what I did.

Now, the lopsidedness may have been largely of my making, but there was an insidious factor at play:

We never talked about it.

And one person's take on a relationship can vary greatly from another person's take on a relationship. But if neither of you are explicit, bad things can arise. Paths will veer. Assumptions will be made.

So, despite the fact that I knew, for some time, that it was best to say "The End," I didn't.

And I didn't.

And I didn't.

Because it never felt like the right time.

As if there is a right time to give up something – someone – you love.

But as many of you know, I am a firm believer in everything happening the way it's supposed to happen.

And context is a wonderful thing.

I had had a somewhat similar experience a few years before, having heard from a one-time friend who wanted to reconnect. That relationship, too, had been lopsided, though in a different way.

And it was extraordinary to tell him "No."

No, I didn't not want to rekindle our friendship.

Our friendship had, for years, been nothing of the sort. It was about him taking and my getting next to nothing in return.

Mind you, like I said, I am not the person who needs everything to be exactly equal. Far from it.

But the year he called me on my birthday (three days after his; rather easy to remember) to talk about himself, that was the beginning of our end.

And so when he resurfaced, years later, it was not difficult to tell him that I wished him well but that, for me, it was best to leave the past in the past.

When I tell mutual friends that story, their faces change.

Is their disbelief that I would do such a thing – that I am capable of such a thing? – or that any person would behave thusly?

I never ask.

It was the right thing for me. I never looked back. What could I possibly be missing? More of the same?

I'll never know, that's true. But so the saying goes, a leopard doesn't change its spots.

And so, in that way, I was a bit prepared for last year.

A bit, I say.

A tiny bit, apparently, as I literally shook as I wrote that letter. Not out of anger, but out of fear and awe. I was finally doing something I had known I had to do but had put off doing. For several years.

I could scarcely believe I was writing those words. That I was standing up for myself. That I was saying, verbosely, "It is not all right for you to treat me this way." That I was revealing, fully, nakedly on the page, how much he had hurt me.

And in the end, he had no idea.

Or so he said.

His reply was one of surprise for what I had written.

But then, assuming he was being honest, of course it was. I had never spoken up. I had, by not condemning his behavior, condoned it.

The timing, it turned out, was not ideal. For him. And I felt bad, slightly, for unwittingly piling on.

But it had been the right time for me. And that was my foremost consideration. It had to be.

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways.

And it is fitting that my brain, just now, would recall a lyric from The Beatles' "Help!"

Because it was exactly that that I had needed and didn't receive.

And so I moved on.

Makes Beth Happy, October 9 ...

2011-10-09T08:16:00.004-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Feud!
While the meaning of the word does not make me happy, the pronunciation of it surely does. Say it a few times. It's funny!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Challah Knots

I have a desperate, unfortunate infatuation with white flour, especially in the form of risen breads. Also, I like saying "challah knot."

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Netto Table Lamp

I have a bit of a lamp fetish. And while I never really pondered if I had a favorite shape, I surely am drawn to circles these days. Also, yes, I like saying, "Netto."

A little aside for Lowe's: The "Nobody beats our prices. Nobody." shtick is bunk, my friends. I first saw this lamp on Amazon. The price today? $112.05. Your price today? $186.78. And my options to obtain it? Pick it up in a store or truck delivery for $59.

Let's see how that stacks up, shall we?

Amazon: $112.05 + Free Shipping = $112.05

Lowe's: $186.78 + $59 Truck Delivery = $245.78

Difference = $133.73

On the product alone, you charge $74.73 more than Amazon.

And, for what it's worth, every other retailer that stocks this lamp – as ascertained through Google Shopping – charges less than you, by at least $30 (and that's The Home Depot, your arch nemesis).

Bottom line?

Everybody beats your prices. Everybody.

A Meditation On Whole Foods On A Friday Evening ...

2011-10-08T08:45:00.007-05:00

Holy hell.

Have you ever been to a Whole Foods on a Friday evening?

Right around 5:30, just as office buildings everywhere are disgorging workers for the weekend?

It's a kind of madness.

And I'm no supermarket manager, but perhaps the best time for the produce guys to be stocking isn't when the store is mobbed with people, since it's hard enough to navigate the narrow aisles and spaces, even with two-tier mini-carts.

I was just along for the trip, as Doreen was doing a bit of shopping for the weekend? The week? I'm not sure how long her provisions last. Fruit doesn't have a very long shelf life, especially when it's organic.

We stopped by the meat counter so she could pick up chicken (surprisingly affordable) and some lovely ground beef. The man behind the meat counter changed gloves in between.

"They should have a 'beef' guy and a 'chicken' guy and a 'pork' guy," I said. For all of Whole Foods' eco-consciousness, it seemed absurd for the meat men to go through so many pairs of rubber gloves. Why not just move down the case and have different people wait on you? The chicken guy could fetch your chicken, then the beef guy, well, you get the idea.

I noted that the beef tenderloin steaks – aka beef tenderloin cut into hunks – were $30.99 a pound. Ah, Whole Paycheck, you continue to earn your reputation.

We thought we'd pick up dinner there, but, as usual, I had no idea what I'd want. We strolled around the prepared-foods section, and I settled on ... cheese.

I always want cheese. A handsome cheese-monger man asked if he could help me.

"Do you have Parrano?" I asked, knowing full well that he did, just not knowing where.

He came around from behind he counter.

"Would you like a salted caramel?" he asked, which was a perfectly fine response to my cheese query.

I always want a salted caramel.

He handed me two.

Did I mention he was handsome? A handsome man who trades in cheese and hands out salted caramels is one of my ideas of perfection. And I didn't even know I had that idea of perfection until last night.

He showed me the stash of Parrano, many wheels of it stacked with cut, wrapped wedges on top.

I thanked him and set about selecting my wedge, a wee wedge, with minimal rind.

Doreen appeared, having returned from elsewhere in the store. I handed her my second caramel.

She spied some, in a bag, near the cheese counter.

She asked the handsome cheese man if they were the same as the ones he had shared with us.

Indeed, they were. (He handed her two more samples.)

And into the cart they went.

We made our way to the checkout lanes and got in the least foreboding line.

Doreen transferred her goods from the cart to the belt.

Our cashier wore a very large name tag. His name was Julian.

"Julian looks like Clarence," I said.

Doreen looked up and nodded. "He does."

When it was our turn, Julian greeted us and I told him that he reminded me of Clarence Clemons.

Julian thought for a moment and then smiled. "Is it the hair?" he asked, of his hair which was decidedly '50s and not at all Clarence.

"No, it's your face," I said, noting his sapphire-blue eyes. Contacts, I presumed. I hoped. They were a bit unnerving.

The bagger piled all of Doreen's loot into one of her reusable canvas Whole Foods bags and out the door we went, to hail a cab, lest her frozen blueberries defrost on a walk home.

Once there, she set about putting things away and snipping flower stems while I sat on the other side of the counter noshing Parrano and fresh figs.

Later, she broke into the caramels.

They were bigger than the ones we'd had in the store, and soft, unlike the samples from the cheese man, which were cold.

When I was leaving, she asked if I'd like to take the cheese home.

"If I leave it, will you eat it?" I asked.

She said she would, with the figs.

So I left it. (She had paid for it, after all.)

Though I'd have eaten it with the caramels.

Makes Beth Happy, October 6 ...

2011-10-06T09:31:00.000-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Noodle!
For much the same reason as I love "Wheedle!" Words that end in -dle are particularly fun!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Roasted Pears with Espresso Mascarpone Cream

No explanation necessary, right?

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Round Silver Leaf Frame

I have a thing for round frames. And aged finishes. And pretty much anything Italian.

2011-10-05T22:10:00.001-05:00

Indeed ...

2011-10-05T20:58:00.004-05:00

‎"Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

"The only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it ... ."

— Steve Jobs, 1955-2011

My first Apple experience was programming BASIC on an Apple IIe in Mr. Silagyi's* class in 1985.

I have been loyal to Apple since that day.

* Mr. Silagyi died in 2004. Like Steve Jobs, he was 56.

Let It Snow ...

2011-10-05T11:32:00.001-05:00

Not just yet, of course.

Before I traverse winter, I want to savor fall.

It is warm here this week. The forecast calls for mid- to upper-70s. Indian summer, so they say.

Fine. Have your way, weather. But then bring me my fall. My beloved fall. My vibrant trees and fallen leaves and nip in the air.

I just read a story that the Chicago area will experience the worst of winter for this trip around the sun, a repeat of last winter's massive snowfall, nearly 60 inches in a part of the world that normally sees around 30.

My first reaction was a disheartened, "Swell."

My second reaction was, "Meteorologists are often wrong about the weather for tomorrow." So I'll believe the weather when it arrives.

Or doesn't.

As I root for fall, friends are warning me, as if I'm not aware that winter is on the other side.

I know winter is looming. And I am more than willing to welcome winter so long as fall and I can have our time together first.

I don't mind winter. Yes, last year's blizzard was a bit of overkill, but I work from home most of the time. I do not have to commute in it every day.

I still get excited for the first snow of the year, the first real snow, an inch or two, more than a halfhearted dusting.

I like waking up in the morning to falling snow and putting on a pot of coffee and starting my day.

Sometimes, I put on a scarf. I like wearing a scarf inside. It's cozy.

And I am always mindful and grateful for the warmth, that I have a home to shelter me from the snow and wind and cold. I know that many are not so fortunate.

So, let it snow, weatherpeople. I'll be ready.

But today, I have to rake some leaves.

Indeed ...

2011-10-04T10:34:00.004-05:00

"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

I am a member of a community and as a member it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can before I die. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch that I want to make burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations."

— George Bernard Shaw, 1856-1950

With thanks to my friend Sheila for sharing.

Makes Beth Happy, October 2 ...

2011-10-02T08:49:00.002-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Splurge!
A whole lot of consonant awesomeness packed into one syllable!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Chocolate Tart with Pine Nuts

Chocolate? Yes. Pine nuts? Yes. Chocolate and pine nuts?! Lemme at it!

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Copenhagen Square Coffee Table

I'm on a table kick. And I have no business putting a 40-inch-square coffee table in my tiny living room, but then again ... maybe I do.

Being Seen ...

2011-09-29T12:58:00.002-05:00

I tend to surround myself with like-minded people. But then, don't we all?

There's a reason we're friends with the people we befriend and who befriend us.

But there are those who know us in a casual way, and then there are those who resonate on a deeper level.

What a relief it is to find those friends.

I am fortunate to know a handful who know me, see me, believe in me, often better than I am able, in the moment, to know, see, or believe in myself. They are generous and patient and kind. They stay nearby, year after year, holding mirrors, being mirrors, waiting.

Some years ago, I wrote this story which featured this quote from an interviewee:

"For a lot of our folks, you have to hide a bit of who 'you' is to get along with most people. It's like falling into frosting when you can go to an event and meet people you can talk with."

I loved that imagery: falling into frosting.

(My friends, they love frosting. As do I. Who doesn't, really?)

But indeed, it is like falling into frosting, though I had never thought of it that way, had never heard that phrase before that interview. A soft place to fall, comfortable and sweet.

Of course, my friends also help me to see my unsavory side, traits I'd like to change, shift, better.

I am grateful to them. And I hope I am able to repay them in some small way, with time or favors or understanding.

Or cake.

Sparkle ...

2011-09-25T18:09:00.004-05:00

So much for plans. Again.

Yesterday, I was sure that today would consist of baking and reading. I had a recipe bookmarked that I'd been wanting to try, and yesterday, I walked to the store to pick up what I'd need.

And it was supposed to rain. So what better way to spend a rainy day than baking and reading?

The morning arrived, cloudy and grey. The rain arrived. And then ended after 30 seconds. Maybe a minute. But probably not.

Huh. Really? That was it? I checked the radar. There was nothing to be seen.

Well, fine. Baking would happen anyway.

And it did. And it was tasty. Though I want to tweak the recipe and try again.

Dishes were done. The day stretched out before me.

I checked the options on HBO. Free weekend, schmee weekend, there was nothing I wanted to see.

I tried reading, but my head wasn't in it. I got about 20 pages in, noted three questionable moments of copy editing, and set it down.

I sat at the counter, wondering what to do. Nothing leapt out at me.

I decided to get dressed.

And then I decided to leave the house.

I thought about going for a walk, but the car won out. I'd decided to go to an antique mall and if I scored big, I'd need wheels to haul home my quarry.

I stepped into the mall and smiled at the Halloween theme. An A for effort in the merchandising in the joint. I spied a faceted, round glass dish. "Coaster," the price sticker read. For a really big glass of Scotch?

No, a candle, I suppose.

Whatever. I liked it. It reminded me of a diamond choker necklace.

I nabbed it and continued on.

In the back of a display, I spied a silver, oval tray.

Nope, dish. Deeper than I need. Not that I need any of my silver, oval trays. I just love them. (Hey, a girl's gotta have a vice.) So back it went.

I continued on.

I spied a rectangular, stainless tray. It was topped with a pretty bit of fabric and assorted baubles.

I have a knack for spotting the NFS (not for sale) items in an antique store. I picked it up and peered underneath. A price tag. But more than I wanted to pay.

I set it down.

Wander ... .

Wander ... .

Liberace-esque sequin jacket anyone? I snapped a picture with my cell phone and posted it online.

Wander ... .

Wander ... .

Oh, what the hell.

I went back and slid the fabric and baubles onto the shelf.

I admired the tray's rounded corners and rectangular shape.

And then I wondered if it was used for surgical instruments.

No matter. It would have a new home now.

I headed upstairs. Bupkis.

I headed back down, to the remaining booths.

I spied a fluted, footed dish. Ideal, I thought, for a hot fudge sundae. Not that I eat hot fudge sundaes at home. But I am a sucker for all things footed and fluted.

I added it to my stash.

And then I spied two more across the room.

And then I didn't want it anymore. I prefer things that don't feel mass produced.

But oh, there was small glass tray!

The size that might hold some kind of cookies someday. For a photo shoot. For someone.

And so those three things came home with me.

A little bit of sparkle on an otherwise grey day.

Though the sun shone long enough to make them shine.

So Much For Plans ...

2011-09-24T09:42:00.006-05:00

I think I know.

And then, very often, I realize that I don't.

Or I didn't.

Didn't have the whole picture.

But then, who does?

The picture is always changing. Every moment is a single frame in the film of my life, and the beginning will look nothing like the end.

Still, sometimes I have an idea in my head and I think it's a good one, but then, things turn out even better than I planned.

Yesterday was one of those days.

Because of a chair.

Yes, kids, all of this metaphysical prelude is about a chair.

Let me explain.

In my living room, I have a chair. A big chair. A comfy chair. It takes up a fair amount of space, and this room does not have a fair amount of space to give. It's rather small, and it's the room that links all the other rooms in my house, so there is very much a necessity for traffic flow.

Small room + need for traffic flow + wall containing large window and front door + wall containing double closet = not a lot of options for layout

So, the time had come to bid farewell to the comfy chair. I love the comfy chair. And we've been together a long time. It's not you, chair. It's me. I've just moved on.

Still, that decision was not made without some guilt. There are people in the world who have almost nothing to call their own, and here I am, in a house, surrounded by comfort, and wanting to rid myself of a piece of furniture simply because I've grown tired of it. Oh, first-world problems, you unsettle me.

But if my life is changing, I reasoned, my space should be changing, too. And this has been a very pivotal year, and so I started to look for chairs that would work in my small space.

I love — love, love, love — this chair from Angelo.

Isn't she a stunner?

My love of paisley runs deep, and I'm always up for a bit more black in a room.

And the castered leg? Perfection.

But ... .

In my mind, I wanted a pair of chairs, facing my loveseat. (That I want to replace the loveseat is another story for another time.)

And the paisley stunner, while stunning, is too big to use in a pair in this room.

So the search continued for smaller chairs.

I thought about these chairs, but honestly, if I bring one more brown element into this room, well, I don't know what I'll do, but I know that more brown is not what I need.

Still, the slipper chair idea was feeling right. Less visual weight. More openness. That's what this room needs, being so wee.

And then I saw these.

Some months had gone by. Angelo was back on QVC, and had placed these around a dining table (as well as in other vignettes on the set) and they looked awesome.

But they also looked like they'd be too low for dining.

Oh, Beth, Beth, Beth.

Do not doubt Angelo.

The man knows his chairs. As they are literally his chairs.

And he knows design. Inside out.

I will never doubt him again.

I bought a pair (they're sold in pairs) and they arrived and I put them together (which was simple to do) and my mom stopped by unexpectedly the next morning and stepped inside my living room and put her hand to her heart and gasped.

Oh, that's right: My mother gasped when she saw these chairs.

That's how fabulous they are. They're gasp-worthy.

She was so excited about how great they'd be in this room. (I write in my living room.)

So was I.

Big comfy chair would be relegated to the underfurnished basement and these new stunners would take its place. Open up the space. Represent a new phase in my life.

But I would need a hand to get the comfy chair downstairs, so in the meantime, I decided to put Angelo's chairs in another room (somewhere; I don't have a big house) just to get the living room back to rights. The jumble of furniture was irking me.

I walked around, thinking about where to stash his chairs (not in the basement; these are not basement chairs), and as I stood in my dining area, I thought about his stint on QVC.

"Do they really work at a dining table?", I wondered.

So I fetched one from the living room and plunked it in the dining room and ...

OHMYGOSH, HIS CHAIR LOOKS SO GOOD WITH MY DINING TABLE!

LOOK!

I love the black and off-white with the wood tone of my table!

And I love the graphic pattern with the pedestal base.

Love. Love, love, love.

Now then.

Hmm.

These seats of these chairs are wider than the seats of the chairs that currently surround my dining table. So, six? Not gonna happen. For dining, yes, but pushed in? No. Though I can stash one in the corner, I suppose.

But five? Five would be lovely. Four would look too sparse. And I grew up in a family of five, so I'm used to five chairs around a table. And odd numbers are just nice.

These chairs have a much lower back than the Parsons chairs I currently have around the table, and for a moment yesterday, that looked odd, but then it looked just fine. Modern.

So I need more chairs.

The current dining chairs will be reunited with their table which was moved down to the basement which is awesome for extra seating when I have a party. (Which is rarely, but still.) No longer will I have to borrow chairs from my brother.

And I will have spiffy new chairs in the dining room.

And now I need to find a new chair solution for the living room.

But I'm sure Angelo will come up with something else soon that I'll love.

And in the meantime, I'm glad to still have my comfy chair. Turns out, I wasn't quite ready to let it go.

The Latest Crumb ...

2011-09-19T19:13:00.007-05:00

I am building my cookie empire one crumb at a time.

Nearly three years ago, my cousin Patty informed me of a cookie-photography contest at Fine Cooking.

I had taken to taking pictures of my holiday cookies (which was the impetus for The Cookie Queen's English), so why not enter, right?

As I wrote then, "And if I don't win, the exposure of my photos (no pun intended) certainly can't hurt. Who knows who might discover my closeted, food-styling self?"

Who, indeed?

The staff of Fine Cooking. But they were more interested in one of the recipes, which ended up in Issue 102 (December 2009/January 2010).

Then, last year, I spied this special issue and flipped to the table of contents to see if my biscotti was included.

Yup.

And then today, I received an email blast from Fine Cooking hawking a cookie cookbook.

And I wondered if my biscotti had found its way into those pages, too.

So I poked around on Google and Amazon to peek inside and see if I could find it.

Yup. There it was, in the table of contents and in the index. And there I was, under Contributors.

That's a lot of mileage out of one cookie, for a journey that began with a photo, not a recipe!

My thanks to Patty for the initial nudge.

Good Times, September Edition ...

2011-09-14T19:08:00.001-05:00

The September cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich Cookies. And a very good reason why.

Faded ...

2011-09-09T14:57:00.014-05:00

I still can't look at the towers on fire.

Of course, there's no need. Those images are seared into my memory.

Our memory.

I was on the phone that morning. When I hung up, I checked for messages.

There were two.

One was my friend Dave, saying, "Oh my God, turn on your TV." The other was my mother, calling to ask where my cousins worked in relation to the World Trade Center.

I had a red, fine-point Sharpie in my hand. "8:16 Mom World Trade Center," I wrote on a yellow Post-It, and then dialed her home.

I turned on the TV while the phone rang.

I saw a tight shot of something burning.

I didn't know what it was.

I stayed very close to my television for hours and days. I had long loved Peter Jennings but he was heroic to me then. I cried endlessly. I marveled that he was able to keep it together. I wondered if he slept.

He's gone now. And I miss him.

Dave and I spent the morning and part of the afternoon on the phone, watching, trying to believe. My eyes and my heart and my head tried to fathom what had happened. It was too impossible to be real. We didn't talk, Dave and I. We just witnessed it together. And we cried.

He's gone now, too. And I miss him every day.

The world is 10 years older now but arguably isn't any wiser.

And the Post-It Note is on the wall where I put it that morning.

The ink has faded from the sun.

But if you look closely, you can see the traces of what I wrote that day.

Faded but fixed.

Indelible.

Fine Wine ...

2011-09-07T19:25:00.001-05:00

You know what's sad?

Yes, yes, "Jerseylicious," that's true.

But you know what else is sad?

Pouring wine down the drain. Spent wine. Wine past its prime. Wine that, even stopped with a vacuum-seal stopper thingee, doesn't taste good after a day or two.

Sad.

Of course, such sadness is preventable. The solution is to simply drink the wine before it turns.

But I have a strange relationship with wine. Sometimes, I want a couple of glasses, and then, I don't. For some number of days. And then, for the bottle of the moment, it's too late.

This morning, I poured too much of a bottle of Cabernet down the drain, and thought, "No more."

This afternoon, I headed to Trader Joe's.

Back in July, Angelo informed me, excitedly, of the existence of Trader Joe's wine in a box.

Yes, wine in a box. Australian Shiraz. (From the people who brought you Two-Buck Chuck. So you know this is going to end well.)

The box contains three liters, the equivalent of four bottles. It's nifty bladder system keeps the wine fresh for 45 days.

FORTY-FIVE DAYS, PEOPLE.

A month and a half.

Six weeks and three days.

An eighth of a year.

My point being, there is little chance that this wine will end up going down the drain.

But even if it does, it won't pain me too greatly.

Why?, you ask.

Because this box equivalent of four bottles of wine retails for ... $9.99.

Oh, that's right: The equivalent of just slightly less than $2.50 a bottle.

So assuming four glasses per bottle, the box contains sixteen glasses of wine.

Factoring in tax, that works out to about 67 cents a glass.

SIXTY-SEVEN CENTS A GLASS, PEOPLE.

Do you know what else you can buy for 67 cents in this world?!

Yeah, I don't either.

Angelo also recommended the Vinturi Essential Wine Aerator. (He uses it for all reds, not just the boxed stuff.)

It retails for $39.99.

Yup, I dispensed 67 cents worth of wine through a $40 wine aerator. (But not really. Hello, $10 coupon from Bed Bath & Beyond.)

And the end result?

The best glass of red I've ever had?

Nope.

But drinkable?

Entirely.

And an end to the sadness at my sink.

Thank you, friend. I raise my glass to you.

'The Help' ...

2011-09-06T21:08:00.001-05:00

If you haven't already, go see it.

Bring a Kleenex, just in case.

Or, if you go to see it with me, bring a whole pack. I'll need 'em.

Makes Beth Happy, September 4 ...

2011-09-04T12:51:00.002-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Wheedle!
Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Grilled Vegetable and Goat Cheese Sandwiches

I mean, come on! Want! Now!

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Bow Loop Table

I love this table. When I first saw it, I said, "Ooh!" And then I immediately said, "But who would want to dust all that?" Not that there was every any doubt, but yes, indeed, I am my mother's daughter.

Plastinated Emotion ...

2011-08-29T20:14:00.003-05:00

Leave it to me to cry in the Museum of Science and Industry.

Twice.

The second time was while watching footage of the moon landing, seeing people from all around the world, then, cheering, and regretting that the world today seems a million miles away from that global camaraderie.

But the first time was in the Body Worlds exhibit.

Have you been?

It's fascinating. And while some may find occasion to be squeamish, there's really nothing to be squeamish about.

Yes, they're real bodies, real muscles, real organs, real bones. But the plastination process makes them look like, well, plastic.

So you have to remind yourself that you're looking at what remains of people who once were. Interestingly, their eyebrows are included. More interestingly, you have a sense of what they looked like when they were alive.

My mom and I were looking at a woman in an artful pose, with pretty eyes and an elegant nose. "She was beautiful," I said, and mom agreed. Not even the loss of life and skin erased her beauty.

Beyond the bodies are many organs, in cross sections and whole, displaying various diseases (the lungs of a smoker really do turn black) and deformities, and other parts of our anatomy. And I was fascinated to see them, to recall what I learned in anatomy and pre-med, but also to learn so much that was new.

And then, there, in the middle of a case, was an example of an abdominal aortic aneurysm, a massive rupture in the body's largest artery.

The cause of death of my friend Dave.

I could only stand there and stare and remember. For what felt like a long time.

And then I caught up with my mother and my brother, stood aside them and read what they were reading, wiped the tears away, and tried to be discreet.

A Response To A Certain oDesk Poster ...

2011-08-28T09:21:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I wrote this open letter to those who post openings for writers on Craigslist.

This morning, on oDesk, I spied a posting for a freelance writer which earned the designation "Absurd Freelance Listing of the Day." I don't hand out that honor daily, but I probably could.

If I wanted to spend the time looking for listings that would crush my soul.

The poster of the listing I spied today is looking for 200 articles, 500-1,000 words per.

The budget? $200.

TOTAL.

Yep, that's right: 200,000 words for $200.

But wait! There's more!

The poster of the gig wants someone to write "hot personal experiences under different profiles" for an adult dating site.

In other words: porn.

Nice.

A standard manuscript page contains about 250 words. Which means that 200,000 words is the equivalent of an 800-page manuscript.

For $200.

The least they could do is throw in dinner.

I'm Weird: Musical Edition ...

2011-08-22T21:02:00.000-05:00

Tonight, a Facebook pal is asking folks to name their favorite songs.

Huh. I don't think I have one. I love too many songs to pick just one.

The first song that sprang into my mind when I read her request was k.d. lang's "Save Me."

I don't know why. I rarely listen to that CD, much as I love it.

I do love her cover of The Hollies' "The Air That I Breathe." I'd like to record that someday.

But favorite song? I couldn't pick my favorite Springsteen song, let along my favorite song of all the songs I've heard so far in this life.

I suppose I could go with the song that's garnered the most listens on my iTunes, but that wouldn't necessarily be my favorite song. Sometimes, I put a song on repeat and listen to it over and over again. It may be my favorite song right that minute, but it's probably not my favorite song of ever.

I own a lot of Springsteen. I own a lot of The Police and Sting. I own a lot of Pearl Jam and Eddie Vedder. I own a lot of Clapton/Cream/Derek and the Dominos. Hell, I own a lot of James Taylor. U2. A fistful of Coldplay. The entire Beatles catalog, remastered. Soundtracks and scores. I'm a sucker for soundtracks and scores.

But one song. Hmm. One song, one song ... .

Nope. Nothing springs to mind as the song I would want to listen to for the rest of my life.

Patty Griffin's "Rain" would be nice.

Or Shawn Colvin's "I Don't Know Why."

I love Miles Davis's "Blue in Green," but that's not a song.

I love "Now We Are Free" from "Gladiator."

I love Ennio Morricone's "Gabriel's Oboe" from "The Mission." If I ever get married, that's the music to which I'll walk down the aisle.

Favorite song, though? I have no idea.

Do you have a favorite song? What is it? What makes it your favorite?

Makes Beth Happy, August 21 ...

2011-08-21T08:28:00.004-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Spumoni!
Today is National Spumoni Day! Really, I like the pistachio part of spumoni more than the whole spumoni, but I love the word "spumoni" fully!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Kolacky

Look at them! They're little streussel-topped kolacky buns!
SO. FREAKIN'. ADORABLE!

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Jill Mirror

I am a sucker for eyebrow-arch windows. I love them. I love them. I do not have them, but I love them. So, I also love this mirror because, if I were to buy it, it would allow me to bring some eyebrow-arch architecture into my home without cutting new openings in my walls. Love it. Love it! It makes me happy. And, when it comes to these posts, that's the whole point.

Kathryn: Artist ...

2011-08-20T19:14:00.001-05:00

My friend Gretchen came by today with her daughters.

Kathryn, the big sister, arrived with a fish, one of her many art projects that she had selected for me. I added it the art grouping on the wall in my dining room.

And while she was here, she created more art. These, in case you don't know, are purple spiders.

I Eat A Lot Of Salad ...

2011-08-20T07:46:00.003-05:00

Genetically, I'm part rabbit.

Because I am my mother's daughter, and somewhere along the line, my mother must have been bitten by a radioactive rabbit (like Spiderman, but with a bunny) and suddenly, a sandwich wasn't a sandwich unless it contained a three-inch stack of lettuce.

OK, yes, I'm being absurd. She doesn't make sandwiches with three inches of lettuce. It's really only about two. Two inches. But that's the God's honest truth. We don't understand people who put one forlorn piece of iceberg lettuce on sandwich. We pile up romaine until the bread falls off.

Anyway, suffice it to say, I grew up eating a lot of lettuce. Iceberg, yes, back in the day, because that was what was done. Actually, I should buy a head of iceberg every now and then, if only for the satisfying WHUNK! of slamming it down on the counter on its core. What? How do you core a head of iceberg lettuce? Do you use a knife? Or do you just pull leaves off of the core and leave it there? Oh, no. No, no, no, people. Grab that sucker with two hands, core to the bottom, and WHUNK! that bad boy down on the counter – hard. Turn it over, grab the core, and it will come right out.

These days, I buy a six-pack of romaine hearts at Costco, which lasts me a few days. And I make salads far bigger than my head. But veggies are mostly water. There's not a lot of there there. At this time of year, either from my mother or my neighbor, I have a constant supply of cucumbers and tomatoes on my counter, so into the salads they go. And I give 'em a good drizzle of balsamic dressing and toss in a ridiculous pile of freshly grated Parmesan cheese and a healthy handful of chopped, toasted walnuts, and then I plop myself on the couch with a napkin and a fork and I cram my face full of salad.

It's not pretty. But I don't eat that way in front of others. In front of others, I take bites that fit into my mouth. Hey, my mother raised me right. Mostly.

Lately, I just don't have a taste for anything else. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe I'm just boring. But last night, I hopped in the car to go fetch dinner. (I had nothing on hand and didn't feel like cooking anyway.) And I drove around for about 20 minutes, waiting for something to appeal to me, gave up, came home, put the car in the garage, and headed inside to make a giant salad.

At the moment, I'm having iced coffee. But I'm not above having salad for breakfast.

But not today. Because I'm out of stuff.

Time to head to the store.

Raising $50,000 + In 50 Days + To Celebrate Turning 50 = 150,000% Awesome!

2011-08-18T11:20:00.001-05:00

I love this woman.

I don't know her, but I love her.

Her name is Colleen Wainwright, and to celebrate her upcoming 50th birthday, she is raising $50,000 in 50 days for WriteGirl, an L.A.-based nonprofit that mentors girls and teaches them to express themselves with words.

You can help her meet her goal. Hell, you can help her exceed her goal. Right this minute, her total stands at $28,657. But she'll happily accept a $50,000 contribution from a very generous benefactor.

Please consider helping this amazing woman achieve this amazing goal. Contribute if you're so moved, or share her story.

Fleeting ...

2011-08-15T19:33:00.000-05:00

Well, that was a pretty shadow. I'm glad I looked up when I did. It's gone now.

Good Times, August Edition ...

2011-08-15T12:17:00.002-05:00

The August cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Drumstick Cookies. Like the chocolate- and peanut-coated ice cream cone, but in cookie form.

The Thrill Is Gone ...

2011-08-11T16:06:00.008-05:00

'Round about the time it became clear that the digital conversion would mean that I'd finally have to bite the bullet and get satellite or cable TV, I wondered how I would manage to get anything done in a home with access to the BBC.

I needn't have worried. My love for BBC America had vanished and I hadn't even noticed. Somehow – subconsciously, perhaps – I knew that my favorite shows had gone away. I'm rather fond of Gordon Ramsay, actually, but I don't want to watch him 20 hours a day.

No, my attention turned instead to HGTV. Design shows became my new love, the food for my visual soul. And "Holmes on Homes" with Mike and his integrity-fllled guns tearing it up and making it right.

But that was then.

And now?

Oh, HGTV, what are you doing?

First of all, "House Hunters," "House Hunters International," "House Hunters on Vacation," and "House Hunters Great Escapes"? This isn't "CSI," kids. This ain't "Law & Order." Stop it with the franchises already. Just stop.

And then there's "My First Place" and "Property Virgins" (that one I like because Sandra Rinomato is adorable), but my point is this: There are too many shows that involve people looking at houses. "For Rent" works because it's part apartment search, part design show. But honest to Christ, if I see one more person walk into a room of a prospective home and whine, "I don't like this paint color," I'm going to hurl a brick at my TV. No, I don't keep a brick handy. But I'll find one. Kindly tell your producers to tell would-be homebuyers to find something valid to criticize. Anything that can be fixed for $20 or less should be off limits. For the love of God, people, buy a freakin' can of paint.

Oh, and while we're at it, people who say they want an older home with character and then complain that the master bedroom is too small need to shut up, too. Guess what? Once upon a time, bedrooms weren't big enough to house an airplane. Do you know why? Because people used their bedrooms for sleeping. In their beds. And maybe to store the sane amount of clothes they used to own. Maybe the problem isn't that the room lacks a 300-square-foot closet, lady. Maybe the problem is that you own 200 pairs of shoes.

"House Hunters International" holds a bit of appeal because I like to see different cultures and parts of the world, but similar rules should apply to that show, too: If an American couple wants to buy a home in another part of the world, they're not allowed to complain that the new space is nothing like the space they're leaving behind. In my book, the realtor has permission to smack them and say, "You want an American-style bathroom? Don't leave America."

You know which shows I like best, HGTV?

The ones produced in Canada.

Uh oh.

As for most of the homegrown fare?

No, thanks. I'm not hungry.

Now, mind you, I know I'm not a designer. And I know it's far easier to criticize than to do. And I know that my tastes are my tastes and that other tastes may vary. But this is my blog, my take. And you, of course, are free to disagree.

But oy. Just ... oy.

"Home by Novogratz"? First of all, could the name of the show be more boring? I know that there's nothing catchy that rhymes with "Novogratz," but surely something could have been brainstormed that rolled off the tongue. Though beyond the name of the show, what are those people doing? Does anyone truly want to live in rooms that look like that? And how about scale? Does it not apply if your last name ends with a Z?

"Room Crashers"? Oh, Todd, yes, you were the hunky surfer dude on "Design Star" who filled the shirtless void left when David Bromstad decided to stay dressed. But for your final challenge, you put a giant cut-out of an octopus on the wall of what was intended to be a hotel suite. How did the the powers that be decide to give you a show after that? What was that Moroccan-themed living room about? Aside from not Moroccan? Why were there little benches on the wall on either side of an armoire? Just to fill up space? To provide seating for guests who don't want to interact with each other?

"My Yard Goes Disney"? Sigh. Aren't we hated enough already for our conspicuous consumption in this country?

"Secrets From a Stylist"? Emily, do you believe that anyone – anyone – who is not on your show is going to do every room in their home twice? What is that about? I'm sorry but "I painted this wall orange, but now I'm going to paint it blue!" is just stupid. Have you ever watched "House Hunters"? People don't want to paint a wall once, let alone twice.

And soon we'll be treated to "Donna Decorates Dallas." OK, I know that I was griping about the lack of originality behind "Home by Novogratz" but I have to ask: Was someone just going for alliteration here? Or are they intentionally playing off the title of a famous porno film? Earlier today, my mom asked me if I'd seen the promos for the show. "Donna's Floofy Bullshit?", I blurted out. Really, people? Really? Who lives in a home that looks like that? And, more importantly, why?

I do watch "Dear Genevieve," and I'm grateful that the letter-reading and thank-you-note-writing aspects have been cut from the show. Those were hammy. And I like "The Antonio Treatment," but for me, that's like watching an art program more than a design show, because his rooms are cool but beyond the limits of what I expect most people call "home." "Colorsplash" is fun and I'm glad that David was able to return to Miami. I like most of his designs and I marvel at the paintings he creates. I could watch him paint for half an hour. After all, Bob Ross is gone. And I tune into "Curb Appeal: The Block" from time to time because I like John Gidding and because the front of my house could certainly use a spruce.

But at this point, I've seen all the reruns, and four, 30-minute shows adds up to two hours of programming a week.

I need more from you, HGTV. We can't make this relationship work if you're never around.

It's like I hardly even know you anymore.

Later: I just saw a promo for "Dina's Party." Yet another show I won't be watching. Is it supposed to be celebrational or aspirational? I'd wager most people aren't blowing that kind of cash on parties in this economy.

Nothing Says 'Procrastination' Like Tomato Art ...

2011-08-09T13:21:00.000-05:00

In The Shape Of A Heart ...

2011-08-09T10:53:00.000-05:00

For my friend Paul, who suggested that I bake something in the shape of a heart in lieu of walking the 3-Day this year.

Breaking My Stride ...

2011-08-04T22:11:00.001-05:00

I should be asleep.

I should be asleep in the Renaissance in Northbrook.

I should be expecting a wake-up call at 4 a.m.

Because that is what I've done every year right around this time of year the past six years. I've walked that many 3-Days in a row.

My first event was in Atlanta, in 2001, three weeks after September 11th.

And then I didn't walk again until 2005. I had met an amazing woman in 2004, confined to a wheelchair since she was 11 years old, and I vowed to walk every year for the simple reason that I am able to walk.

So I did.

In 2005, I met Catherine.

In 2006, I met Erin and Shel and Mike.

In 2007, I met Jen and Tina and a whole gaggle of gals who adopted me as part of their team.

In 2008, I met Amy, who became my "Aimes."

In 2009, I met Rhonda, Amy's friend who wanted to experience the event for herself. And I wore the Cubs hat given to me by the family of L.A. Dave.

In 2010, I met Michael and his wife, Monica, forces of nature both.

I saw Barry in event after event. He sprays his beard pink. He is hard to miss. And he is very dear.

This year, I will not walk. And I will miss it.

I signed up with all the usual and best intentions.

But fundraising and circumstances didn't gel. And I don't believe in coincidence, and something very important arose that I need to attend to tomorrow, so not walking makes sense.

And while I will miss the event and the friends I've made and the energy and the laughter and the tears, perhaps it is best to recharge, to get truly excited to do it again.

A friend's sister has been diagnosed. She is 37. Next week, she will have a double mastectomy. My friend wants to walk next year, for her.

So we will walk together.

And I will be able to see the event through his eyes, experience it as someone else experiences it for the first time.

And he will have a friend to hand him Kleenex at opportune times, not that any walker wouldn't do the same.

And he will have someone to hug, along the way and when he takes his final step, 60 miles from where he started, but so much more.

I've said over and over that the 3-Day will change your life. And it will. It does.

So I'm excited for all those men and women who are trying to sleep tonight, who are unaccustomed to going to bed at this hour and who are nervous for what tomorrow holds.

And I'm a little sad not to join them.

But Paul, one of my contributors this year, suggested that since I won't be walking this weekend, I should bake something in the shape of a heart instead.

I have no idea where that idea came from, but I love it.

And so I shall. In honor of those we've lost and in honor of those who fight and in honor of those who love all those men and women, I shall bake something in the shape of a heart.

And then I will go for a walk.

My Inner Chef ...

2011-08-02T23:17:00.003-05:00

I love food. Over the years, I've toyed with the idea of becoming a chef. But two days in a professional kitchen years ago quickly taught me that the chef's life is not for me. It's too harried. It's too "good enough." I don't like "good enough." I like "as good as I can possibly make it." I prefer "perfect," but sometimes "perfect" gets in the way.

So I content myself with having friends over for dinner, planning menus, shopping, prepping, cooking, serving. I derive great joy out of feeding those I love. There is little I enjoy more than watching someone savor something I've made.

And the experience is even better when the person I love is someone I haven't seen in far too long.

And so it was with tonight's guest, Brian. Nearly five hours of grazing and sipping and eating and resting and eating and sipping.

Oh, yes, and catching each other up on the past couple years of our lives.

What's that? The menu?

We noshed on shavings of Parmesan and toasted walnuts and red grapes, little tastes. A small platter of little tastes. Which we finished.

The entree was linguine with white clam sauce, because I'd had a taste for it, and a guest provides a good excuse to prepare it.

After a rest, dessert was sea salt-caramel gelato (I'm in love with it) and dark chocolate-espresso biscotti and coffee. Brian is a grown up. He takes his black.

I'm sure we could have talked for much longer. Coffee and biscotti could have sustained us. Alas, he had to leave.

So now, later, the dishes are done and bed is calling.

Tomorrow, pasta for breakfast. Because it's even better reheated the next day.

Goodwill, Indeed ...

2011-07-30T13:50:00.004-05:00

Every so often, I pop into my local Goodwill and peruse a few shelves for possible food-styling props.

Yesterday was one such day.

I was in the hunt for a cordial glass. On the first pass, I found shot glasses. I found vodka chillers. I found one cordial but it was too modern in feel. I did find a juice glass that had some age. I didn't want anything new.

I did another pass. Nothing.

I did a third. Voila!

On the way to the register, I checked the aisle of assorted household stuff. Behold, a silver oval tray. Have I mentioned my addiction to silver oval trays?

No?

I have an addiction to silver oval trays.

At the register, the cashier asked if I'd be using any coupons or discounts. (I love that Goodwill even offers coupons or discounts.)

No, I told her.

So she handed me a scratch-off ticket and a pen, to use the cap to scratch off the ticket to see how much I'd save.

Scratch, scratch, scratch: 20%.

And so my total, tax included, for two wee glasses and a small tray?

$1.28.

Best. Prop. Resource. Ever.

I always walk out of there feeling like I should give them extra money, on principle. How do they accomplish good things with totals like $1.28?

Someday, I shall write a check.

I Didn't Feel Like Family ...

2011-07-28T14:32:00.002-05:00

I had lunch at Olive Garden today.

Yes, really.

And the timing was especially poignant, as just this morning, I wrote to a friend, as part of a discussion of all things ubiquitous and predictable: "Such is the way of the world, m'dear, and the same reason that the parking lot of Olive Garden is always full."

I guess people like knowing what they're going to get.

Now, I will fully cop to having McDonald's on my first trip to London, but that's because I was curious to know if a cheeseburger in London would taste the same as a cheeseburger here. I figured they must, that all suppliers must abide by identical standards, but still, I wanted to taste for myself.

Yup. Exactly the same.

I am happy to report that I skipped McDonald's on my second trip to London. I was far too taken with EAT. Though I did pop into Starbucks. Twice. So sue me.

Anyway, today was an adventure. And I should clarify that the only reason I found myself dining at Olive Garden was because my mom had a gift card to spend.

I hadn't been in about 20 years.

Since the parking lot is always jam-packed, we decided to go first thing, before running another errand. We arrived at 10:57 a.m. People were sitting in their cars.

We waited by the door until someone opened it from inside. Past the airlock, we were greeted by the uniformed horde. It was a bit intimidating, really. Easily a dozen Olive Garden staff, if not more, were standing there, staring at us. It was a little "West Side Story."

We were sent on our way with a server who led us to our table, a booth.

We both ordered ice water, no lemon. (If you're not hip to the lemon scene in restaurants, a) they're almost never washed before they're sliced, and b) once they're sliced, folks just reach in and grab slices to pop into or onto glasses. And I reckon those folks aren't washing their hands first.)

I can say this for Olive Garden: I like the water glasses.

Our server looked as though she might have a skin condition and was wearing a lot of makeup to compensate. Which is not a criticism. People should feel pretty. But her very purple and pink eyeshadow threw me for a momentary loop.

Mom opted for the Venetian Apricot Chicken. I ordered the Grilled Steak & Portobello Panini.

Our server asked if I'd like the soup with the panini or before.

"With her salad," I said, gesturing to mom, forgetting for the moment that I would be having salad, too.

She disappeared and returned with a tray.

I can also say this for Olive Garden: I like that Parmesan cheese comes fresh from a Zyliss grater.

The soup was hot. Too hot, actually. I stirred it a bit while mom helped herself to salad. A woman at the next table spoke, loudly, of a dissected artery.

I looked at my soup. Minestrone. It was pretty bland.

I set the bowl aside and proceeded to salad.

I can also say this for Olive Garden: I like that the salad plates are chilled.

Yup, the salad tasted exactly as I remembered it tasting. And it was just as overdressed as I remembered it, too.

And behold the breadsticks in the plastic faux basket. Mom wondered why there were only three for the two of us. But more arrived later, even after we had said no to the offer of more.

And then there was lunch. Mom's chicken arrived looking not at all like the picture. But then, food never does. Have you ever had a Whopper that looks like the picture at Burger King?

And then there was my panini. It was served on a white rectangular plate. As our server set it down, the halves slid sadly to one side. Rarely has a plate containing food looked so forlorn.

Our server explained that normally, it comes plated with a cup of soup.

But I had wanted my soup first. And so my entree was Little Panini Lost.

My mother was almost pissed. "I'd be embarrassed to serve that to someone," she said. "They could have at least included a garnish."

She made me take some of the asparagus off her plate. I laid a spear between my sandwich halves, diagonally.

"Take another one," she said. So I did. And I almost crossed the second one across the first, to be a bit artful. But that seemed unnecessary.

The forlorn panini was fine. Edible. Remarkable in no way.

Mom left part of her chicken. It wasn't a big serving to begin with, and she had said she was hungry.

"You're not going to finish?" I asked, knowing full well she could.

"I don't think it's real chicken," she said. "It seems processed."

I picked up my knife and fork and cut a piece and tried it.

It was unexpectedly soft.

I tried another bit, from the edge. That had a bit more texture, what you'd expect from a breast of chicken. But still, her point was taken.

Whatever they do to process the chicken, whatever marinade or brine, does leave the chicken rather "meh." Why finish "meh"?

Our server returned to ask if we'd saved room for dessert.

Oh, no, I said. Too many breadsticks.

So she brought us the check.

On the way out, I had to stand aside to let the throng of patrons past who were headed to their tables.

Once we were outside, I turned to mom and said, "Let's never do that again."

Today ...

2011-07-26T14:13:00.008-05:00

I feel fractured.

What is wrong with me?, I ask myself, over and over. Why can’t I figure this out?

I know so many people, so many people who have so many nice things to say. I have gobs of experience, of connections, of talent.

How can it all add up to nothing?

I tell myself that I’m not being assertive enough, and perhaps that is my lesson to learn. But I have never been assertive. I am not comfortable talking about myself, selling myself.

And yet, I have. In recent interviews, I have (I believe; geez, I hope) projected self-confidence without lapsing into hubris.

It seemed to work. I connected with those women, first one, then the other, days apart. References were requested, so references were supplied, one of whom had told me that the company in question takes a long time in making its decisions to hire. Patience isn’t my strongest suit, so that was good to know.

Fortunately, I had a legitimate reason to check in with the woman making the hiring decision. To her credit, she replied to my email and took the opportunity to update me on the hiring situation.

Both she and her boss thought I was fantastic, she wrote. They both think I am a fantastic writer.

They were going to pursue other candidates, but they hoped I would still be open to being considered, in the event that those candidates didn’t pan out.

I took that to mean that I was third in line.

And so I replied that I would very much like to stay in consideration and that was true. I believe in the company and the work they do. And I believe I could contribute to the company’s mission in many ways.

Still, in this market, being the third candidate – or a candidate possibly further down the line – doesn’t bode well for one’s chances. How many people do you know these days who are turning down jobs?

Even though I know networking is the most likely way to find a job, I still peruse the job sites every day. Some interesting gigs pop up on Craigslist from time to time, as one did the other day.

I sent off a resume and a link to a blog post as my writing sample, exactly the kind of writing I’d be doing for the would-be client, only the copy they’d need would be much shorter. Shorter copy. Tighter. I can do that.

The woman conducting the interviews responded and mentioned that she would be conducting interviews via Skype.

So I downloaded Skype. And learned a bit about it.

The day of our chat, my hair was very much in the mode of sabotage. Really, hair? The first time I have to do an interview via Skype and now you won’t behave?

Luckily, the woman popped up just in advance of our appointed dicussion time to ask if audio only was OK.

Absolutely. I love audio only. Right now, woman, audio only is my best friend.

So we chatted, and when the discussion came around to how much the gig was paying, I managed to neither choke nor laugh.

Read enough postings on Craigslist and eventually, nothing will surprise you.

She said that she’d be letting people know two days later.

Two days later was four days ago.

I take it I didn’t get the gig.

Frankly, it’s kind of funny. I’ve worked at major metropolitan newspapers. I’ve edited an international best seller. My work has appeared in newspapers and on web sites across North America. And in Asia, come to think of it. Translated.

So was I overqualified or underqualified for the job that would have paid $625?

Some days, it feels interminable, all this. And yet, I know it’s not. I know the day will come when I will look back at this moment and it will be nothing more than a part of my history.

Still, some days, it’s hard to see that day.

Well-meaning family and friends offer advice.

Apply for other jobs, not in your field, they say, helpfully! As if all the people who are looking for jobs who have experience in those fields aren’t going to be considered first?

Go back to school! Get an MBA! I’m sorry, go back to school? You mean, have no income to pay current bills and incur more debt in the form of future bills to get a degree that will allow me to do what exactly?

I know they mean well. I do.

But they don’t understand. They think they do, but they don’t. They can't. They haven't been in this place.

Other friends have assumed the much-appreciated role of cheerleader. Other friends seem to have fallen away. Perhaps they fear ennui is contagious. Perhaps they fear I have an employment pox. Or perhaps I have fallen away from them. These are not my most social days.

I am fully aware that this post is risky business. Will it help me or hinder me in finding a job?

I don’t know. I would hope that any prospective employer who happens across my blog would appreciate my honesty. For today, this is my life. And today, my life feels like a little too much to bear.

Writing is both my release and processor, the filter through which my muddy thoughts pass and hopefully come out more clear.

A way to exhale.

Spatial Cadet ...

2011-07-24T16:32:00.017-05:00

I am a very visual person.

I have proof.

Some people are very right-brained. Some people are very left-brained. I am both. Which can either be taken as an aspect of me that's fascinating or as further proof that I can't commit to one thing.

Of the two options, I like the former.

I write, and I love to write. And I sing, and I love to sing.

But yesterday, half of my brain said, "Let's create something!"

And the other half, which is my bored-child-on-summer-vacation half, replied, "Yeah, but what?"

And the creative half, the right half, which in the moment was like a tween hopped up on sugar, said, "Paint!"

Paint?

Now, y'all know I love to paint rooms in my house.

But that's not what my brain was saying.

My brain wanted to paint. Like a painter. On a canvas – a large canvas – with brushes and a couple of tubes of color. My brain wanted to create art for over the loveseat in my living room to replace the photograph that my spatial brain recently realized was out of scale. In relation to the loveseat, it's fine. In relation to the whole wall, it's wee.

Well, I didn't go buy a canvas and brushes and paint. And I don't know how I'd paint a large canvas, anyway. On the floor, perhaps. Because I don't own a large easel. (I do own a small easel. Have you ever bought an easel? Damn. Money.) And I figured I'd need something bigger than my car to transport the size canvas I wanted to buy.

So I nixed the painting idea for the day. And I wrote instead.

Now, I do not fancy myself a writer of fiction. I have great respect for those who do, but I do not include myself among them.

Well, I don't. Left-brained Beth doesn't. Right-brained Beth might have other ideas, because a couple of weeks ago, an idea popped into my head and I started writing – typing, clacking – and I liked what came out.

So yesterday, I revisited the bit that I'd written and wrote more. And revised. And read. And you know what? It's pretty good, even by the standards I set for myself. And if a short novel is about 300 pages, well, then, I only have 298 1/2 pages to go.

Still, it left me wanting more. It was creativity, but I didn't crave writing yesterday. I craved creating. With my hands. Painting. Sculpting. (Hello? Beth? You don't sculpt.) Not baking, though dough is an artful medium. It was too hot to bake.

And this morning, the impulse hadn't gone away. I busied my hands. I made my bed. I washed my dishes. But they still want to do something more.

For a while, I stared at the wall above my loveseat, envisioning what I want to see hanging there. I know the predominant color. Very saturated. Odd, for me. I may be leaving beige behind at last. But within the field, I'm not sure. It won't be intricate. We're not talkin' Seurat. It will be more modern, but not this, because, I mean, stop it. It will be more like Pollock before he broke through. I've always loved the mural he created for Peggy Guggenheim.

Mind you, I don't flatter myself. I know I am not a painter, so it is absurd to cite the likes of Seurat and Pollock here.

But I've always created the pictures in my mind. So when my staring at the wall gives way to a vision, that's what I'll paint.

For now, I have my stack of art and design books around me. For now, pictures will do.

Update: I ran an errand, both out of necessity and to get away from staring at the wall. On the way home, my right brain said, "Ooh! Don't you have colored pencils? You can draw something, at least!"

My left brain said, again (perhaps it's a disaffected teenager), "Yeah, but what?"

My right brain said, "A bird!"

A bird?

OK. Whatever. A bird.

So when I got home, I rummaged through my bin of craft stuff that I keep on hand in case any kids drop by or in case my nephews and niece suddenly find themselves young again, and indeed, I had a box of colored pencils, just a few colors, but enough.

And I sat down with my sketchbook and my right brain said, "A silly bird!"

OK. Fine. A silly bird.

So I drew the first little plume. And then I drew a bit more and penciled in a beak – I knew he would be smiling – and added his eye and then my right brain said, "OK, we're done!"

We're done?

My right brain likes his cute little bird face and has no interest in figuring out the rest of his little bird body.

And I wonder why I never finish anything?

So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Partial-Headed Bird No. 1. To be funny. Because I think artists who number their work are stuffy and because I know full well that there will never be a Partial-Headed Bird No. 2.

Hello, Rainier Lovelies ...

2011-07-21T13:32:00.000-05:00

I didn't tweak the color even in the slightest. They're just that luminous and gorgeous.

Donna's Birthday ...

2011-07-19T22:26:00.007-05:00

Tomorrow, July 20, my friend's Sheila and Jeremy's daughter, Donna, would have turned 6. To honor her memory, we're all going to wear black, not to be solemn, but to celebrate her life. Black was Donna's favorite color. I invite all my friends to join us, and join Donna's Good Things on Facebook, and post pictures of themselves in black.

(Yep, it's gonna be a scorcher in Chicago. Perhaps you'll wear cool black sunglasses. It's the spirit that counts.)

You can read Donna's story and learn of other ways to get involved at donnasgoodthings.org.

Update: Today is Donna's birthday. It warms my heart to see so many people on the Donna's Good Things Facebook page posting pictures of themselves wearing black in her honor. Sheila and Jeremy shared this photo of Donna with me. It is on the desk in my office. Every day, I wish her a good morning and she, in turn, reminds me to choose hope.

Don something black today. Honor Donna. And choose hope.

'How Not to Become Invisible After 40'? Really? ...

2011-07-18T11:26:00.000-05:00

I subscribe to my fair share of email blasts from job sites. Some are strictly for job postings. Others are more chatty.

This morning, the headline "How Not to Become Invisible After 40" caught my eye. Mission accomplished there. So I clicked through, and I read this.

I hadn't read something that condescending in a long, long time.

The writer, who helps "people over 40 get their career mojo back," writes, "... one of the top complaints I hear from readers (especially women) is that they seem to have become transparent. Sales clerks look right through them, the opposite sex does not check them out, and even their resumes seem to disappear once it’s clear how old they are. ... [W]hat can you do to make sure you don’t become socially invisible after 40?"

I know, right?!

Here's the writer's advice. [ And my commentary in brackets. ]

1. Expand your group of friends. [ I'm on board with this one. We should all endeavor to know more people, different people. People who hold different political views, religious views, cultural views, what have you. We can all learn from each other. ]

2. Stop wearing your I-Give-Up Clothes. [ No. 1 piece of advice for women on this topic for women: Become friends with Lycra. Lycra? That's your advice, helpful mojo-reclaimer? Lycra? Yes, once you hit 40, your body immediately droops and you can never find properly fitting clothes again. Everything must stretch or you're doomed. ]

3. Innocently flirt. [ How about calling this "Being kind to other people"? When I thank someone for holding the door for me, I'm not flirting. ]

4. Embrace your grown-up-ness. "Remember when you were a kid and people like your school principal, the top teacher, and favorite athletic coach all seem to really have their sh*t together? They had that cool confidence that comes from being a Real Grown Up. You’re that grown-up now. Remember that." [ Yes, I would wager that most people over 40 recognize that they're grown ups. I would also wager that most people just wrote this writer off for using the phrase "really have their shit together." ]

5. Work out with weights. [ Get off your Hoverounds, kids, and hit the gym! Seriously? Seriously?! "Work out with weights"? Yes, our collective over-40 assumed malaise will miraculously lift if we all buy gym memberships or stock up on free weights at home. I'm all for fitness, but if you're feeling invisible, I think your problem is deeper than arm flab. ]

As my friend Carl commented upon reading this, "I agreed wholeheartedly with Point #1. After that, all I heard was 'Pretend you're 28.' That *will* get you noticed, but not in a good way."

Checking In ...

2011-07-16T22:12:00.003-05:00

My friend Patti Digh is working on another book. Patti is always working on a book, it seems. She's a book-writing machine, that woman. With a husband and two daughters and an ever-expanding menagerie of pets. But she is a writer. And writers write. And so she does.

Her latest book-in-progress is titled The Geography of Loss and for it, she is asking the question, "For what or for whom do you grieve?"

I read that, and answered, reflexively, "Dave."

And then I realized that that was not true.

I realized that that part of me is healed. I think about him, still. I wish I could pick up the phone. But the grief is gone.

The sadness that trailed me like a shadow after his death has transformed into run-of-the-mill missing. I'll always miss him. I miss him every day. There is so much we would talk about if we could. But grief it's not.

And then I thought about other losses in my life, relatively recent and profound. And I realized that I no longer grieve those either.

There are things in my life I would like to change. Will change. And I know that future grief awaits.

But for the moment, this moment ... and this moment ... and this moment, I am OK.

Makes Beth Happy, July 16 ...

2011-07-16T16:31:00.005-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Blurt!
Need I say more?

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Parmesan Toffee Cookies

Oh, that's right, I'm pimping my own recipe, because it's freakin' genius! Parmesan cheese in a cookie, people! You will not believe how good these taste. Until you try them. So get bakin'.

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Dot Coffee Table

This table is no longer available, so I won't bother with a link (which will just tell you that the table is no longer available). But while its lack of availability makes me sad, the fact that it exists in the world – somewhere – makes me happy.

I'm Holding Out On You ...

2011-07-16T09:09:00.002-05:00

I'm in the mood to write. Sometimes, oftentimes, I am not in the mood to write, but sometimes I am in the mood to write and yet I feel as though I have nothing to say.

To wit, right now. I just started a blog post and gave up just a few sentences in because it wasn't real. I was concocting a post, not writing one. Stringing together words that didn't ring true. And if they don't ring true, what's the point in writing them? Writing doesn't count if it's fake. For me, anyway. James Frey might disagree.

Sometimes in my wanting-to-write-but-feeling-as-though-I-have-nothing-to-say moments, I think that my life must just be that uninteresting, that if I were to write about my day or week, I would have nothing but banalities to spew, and who wants to read another person's banalities? Most of us have plenty of our own.

But then another thought appears in my head, as just happened again a moment ago, and that thought is that I have plenty to say, I'm just wary to share it with you.

Why? Oh, you know. There's the fear of being judged. There's always the fear of being judged. Of disappointing. Of incurring an exasperated sigh. There's the sense that I should be further along on any given journey, that everyone else has figured out far more than me, that I must be missing some crucial gene because how can I be so smart yet so stunted?

But then yet another thought appears that says, "Beth, you know enough to know that you're not alone. You're not the only one in this place. You're not the only one to feel this way. And there's comfort in that, for you and for them. You feel relieved when you see yourself in another's words, that moment of 'Exactly! Yes!' So write what you have to write. Offer others that moment."

So here I am.

Well, kind of.

There are many things swirling about these days, many messages, many signs. Nudges, reassurances. The net is there.

It's like those very intricate locks in the movies, many moving parts that must all fit together exactly to open or close. All of those pieces are coming together. Finally. And I feel the need to write it all down. To capture it. To see all of the pieces mesh. It feels too fleeting otherwise. Like it might evaporate or the window will close or the moment will pass and I'll have missed it.

But no. I can't miss it. It's here. I know it's here. I just have to pull it all together and take the next step.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Akbar 'N' Jeff's Cryonics Hut ...

2011-07-14T17:29:00.002-05:00

One of the folks I follow on Twitter, @steveweinstein, posted this tweet earlier today: "The good Christian Bachmann Clinic's position on Jews: Pray Away the Oy Vey."

Which made me chuckle. And made me think of Matt Groening's brilliant "Akbar 'n' Jeff's Cryonics Hut" tagline: "Where the Elite Beat the Heat and Avoid Having to Meet St. Pete."

I did a quick search for the 'toon and lo and behold, I did not find it.

So I snapped a snap with my snappy snap camera at a resolution high enough to allow folks to read the whole thing. (Click on the image for the larger version.)

"Yes We Have Party Ice"!

Enjoy!

Good Times, July Edition ...

2011-07-13T06:48:00.000-05:00

The July cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Parmesan Toffee Cookies. "Wait a minute," you may be saying. "You put Parmesan cheese in a cookie?" Why, yes I did.

Chewy Sugar Cookies ...

2011-07-10T15:01:00.002-05:00

I like sugar. I like cookies. But sugar cookies have never been my go-to sweet. Given the choice between a sugar cookie and an oatmeal cookie, for instance, I will shove people into the street to get to the oatmeal cookie.

A sugar cookie is one of those baked goods that is so basic, it seems foolproof, right? Au contraire. And I should know. I tried this recipe and ended up with cookies that looked like Today sponges, disturbingly so.

And I tried this recipe and while I was happy to have ended up with cookies that did not look like a form of contraception, I wasn't much inspired to eat them. They were just, you know, flat. (Though Dorie Greenspan is such a baking goddess, she may have intended them to look entirely different. I may have done something wrong.)

But yesterday was National Sugar Cookie Day, so I was moved to try the Cook's Illustrated recipe for Chewy Sugar Cookies. I was rarin' to bake, until I read the recipe and realized that I needed ... cream cheese. Yep, cream cheese for a sugar cookie. So I made a plan to go to the store. But as long as I was going to leave the house, I figured I may as well make a master list of errands and knock 'em all out, which is what I did, which I why I didn't get around to baking the Chewy Sugar Cookies until today.

And I am happy to report that this is a sugar cookie, the epitome of a sugar cookie. Crackly on top, barely crispy at the edge, and chewy in the center as promised by the name.

Chewy Sugar Cookies
(From Cook's Illustrated, November & December 2010)

NOTE: The final dough will be slightly softer than most cookie dough. For the best results, handle the dough as briefly and gently as possible when shaping the cookies. Overworking the dough will result in flatter cookies.

2 1/4 cups (11 1/4 ounces * ) unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon table salt
1 1/2 cups (10 1/2 ounces) sugar, plus 1/3 cup for rolling
2 ounces cream cheese, cut into 8 pieces
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter **, melted and still warm
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 large egg
1 tablespoon milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1. Adjust the oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 large *** rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper. Whisk flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt together in medium bowl. Set aside.

2. Place 1 1/2 cups sugar and cream cheese in a large bowl. Place remaining 1/3 cup sugar in shallow baking dish or pie plate and set aside. Pour warm butter over sugar and cream cheese and whisk to combine (some small lumps of cream cheese will remain but will smooth out later). Whisk in oil until incorporated. Add egg, milk, and vanilla; continue to whisk until smooth. Add flour mixture and mix with rubber spatula until soft homogenous dough forms.

3. Divide dough into 24 equal pieces, about 2 tablespoons each (or use #40 portion scoop). Using hands, roll dough into balls. Working in batches, roll balls in reserved sugar to coat and evenly space on prepared baking sheet, 12 dough balls per sheet. Using bottom of drinking glass, flatten dough balls until 2 inches in diameter. Sprinkle tops evenly with 4 teaspoons of sugar remaining in shallow dish (2 teaspoons per tray), discarding any remaining sugar.

4. Bake, 1 tray at a time, until edges are set and just beginning to brown, 11 to 13 minutes, rotating tray after 7 minutes. Cool cookies on baking sheets 5 minutes. Using wide metal spatula, transfer cookies to wire rack and cool to room temperature.

BETH NOTES:

* It really behooves you to weigh ingredients when they're specified by weight. Baking is a precise art, and depending on how you measure flour, for instance, you may end up with more volume or less than called for by the recipe. A digital scale is a good investment for your kitchen if you like to bake. They're not expensive.

** I used salted butter then halved the amount of table salt to 1/4 teaspoon.

*** These cookies spread quite a bit. A half-sheet pan would be ideal on which to bake a dozen. But if you have smaller baking sheets, I'd bake four batches of six cookies each, unless you don't mind your cookies baking into each other.

Hello, Lovelies ...

2011-07-07T20:15:00.001-05:00

I'm no fan of summer heat, but I sure am a fan of summer fruit.

Sunflowers ...

2011-07-05T22:01:00.000-05:00

My friends Sheila and Jeremy showed up to my 4th of July shindig with a lovely stash of sunflowers. (They also brought a fun balloon, which their son was reluctant to give up. Hey, I get it. Balloons rock.)

I never think to buy sunflowers, but I shall start, every now and then. They're so sculptural and artful. I feel like I have a bit of van Gogh in a vase.

Seven Things ...

2011-07-02T13:35:00.005-05:00

Some months ago, I happened upon this post from Angelo, a collection of seven things we don't – or didn't – know about him. The post was inspired by a meme from another blogger and he decided to play along.

And I'm glad, because otherwise, I would never have learned this: "When I lived with my grandmother in Greece (my parents were working in Germany at the time) I ate a flower from her yard because I thought it was so amazing looking that if I ate it, [its] powers of color [and] beauty would be a part of me. I was 4 and I had an allergic reaction. My tongue, mouth [and] lips swelled up to at least twice their normal size. It also did not taste as good as it looked."

I love that anecdote. The admission of the allergic reaction and the visual it conjures is priceless, but the notion that he ate a flower because he thought its powers of color and beauty would become a part of him perfectly foreshadows the designer he'd become.

I like learning quirky facts about folks. So since I'm sitting here, in the mood to write, and since I haven't posted in a week (lots going on), I thought I'd try to dream up seven things about myself that I haven't already revealed in more than five years of blathering on in this space. Or maybe I'll end up repeating myself.

Either way, seven things. Here we go.

1. I have a scar on the underside of my chin that I earned when I was 4. It was a summer day. One of my cousins and her mom were visiting. My mom gave me and my cousin permission to play in the sprinkler, so I took off running across the neighbor's lawn to tell her. My neighbor was also sprinkling. So the grass was wet. I slipped just as I neared the sidewalk and my chin hit the pavement. After the initial shock wore off, I did a push-up of sorts (most likely the last time I executed a push-up successfully) and saw blood all over the sidewalk. I got up, cupped my hand to my chin and ran to the back door. Since I needed both hands to get the door open at that age, I kicked the door to get my mom's attention instead. My aunt came down the stairs and saw me crying and asked if my cousin had scared me. I pointed, emphatically, at the blood dripping down my arm. She called my mom, my mom took me to the hospital, and I got four stitches in my chin. The doctor asked me if I wanted pink sutures to match my bathing suit. I remember glaring at him. But I did have the presence of mind to ask one of the nurses if they gave out prizes. She said no, but that if I was a good girl, she'd tell my mom to get an ice cream for me on the way home. Which my mom did. My cousin was supposed to spend the night but those plans were nixed so I could rest. My cousin was pissed that she had to go home. The moral of the story: Don't run on wet grass. For that matter, just don't run. Unless chased.

2. The late, great Dale Earnhardt once winked at me, put his arm around me, and called me "darlin'." I had interviewed him for a story and told him that I'd rented a Monte Carlo to drive out to the event where we met. Dale, of course, raced a black Monte. The rental place only had white. He was OK with that.

3. My favorite word is "chicken."

4. Every so often, my brain reminds me of the time I accidentally spilled Diet Pepsi on my Greek literature professor in college and I still feel a little mortified.

5. From an early age, I planned on being a doctor. Clearly, that did not pan out. As a kid, I wasn't sure what kind of doctor I'd be, but I told my grandmother that she could stay at my hospital for free. As a teen heading to college, I wanted to go into oncology research and find the cure for cancer. Make no small plans, eh? As a pre-med student, I got fed up with all the prerequisites I had to slog through before I could get to the relevant classes, and English Teacher Dave suggested that that was the university's way of weeding out the serious students from the not-so-serious students. Smart man, that Dave. But every time I'm in a hospital, I feel like I belong there. As a doctor, not a patient. Maybe I was a doctor in a past life.

6. I haven't held a tennis racquet in years, but I used to have a really strong serve.

7. I have a fear of performing, but I love the view from a stage. After seeing Ciarán in a play on Broadway years ago, some friends and I went up to his dressing room to hang out for a while before going to dinner. We came down the set of stairs on the far side of the stage, far from the stage door. When Ciarán started to walk toward it, I asked him if it was OK for me to walk that way. He looked at me, perplexed, and said, "The door's over there." I explained to him that it didn't seem as though a mere mortal, as it were, should be allowed to walk across a Broadway stage. He smiled and headed that way. And I lagged behind for a moment so that when I hit center stage, I could turn out toward the house. I figured it would be the only time in my life I would have that view.

Friend ...

2011-06-26T16:16:00.006-05:00

I love this.

Doreen gave it to me last night before we headed out for a night on the town. She saw it while away on a trip, thought of me, and bought it. Which is just exactly like her. She is always thinking of other people, always mindful of things they might like, even people she hardly knows. She is exceeding thoughtful. And an exceedingly good giver of gifts. (Which is an art form. Truly.)

Because her gifts always come with a meaning, a message. She does not buy gifts for gifting's sake. Every gift she gives is an embodiment of love.

Doreen is one of my dearest friends and surely one of my most ardent supporters. Her belief in me never wavers, even when it wavers wildly on my own. For my 40th birthday, she gave me a cheering box, a box that erupts in applause when it is opened, because she knows that some days, I need a little boost.

And so yesterday's gift, while unexpected, came as no surprise. It is just the latest nudge down my path, another reminder to do what I know I am meant to do, however I am meant to do it.

I love that the "C" seems imperfect, too heavy, a different font. As though the artist started stamping this little bit of ceramic, which feels like a small bar of well-worn soap in my hands, and then thought of characters she'd rather use. But she didn't scrap the piece. She just kept going.

That is a lesson I need to really learn. I stop too easily, too frequently, to start over. My perfectionism is silly that way. If I make a mistake when addressing an envelope, I throw it away. If I hit a wrong note in a song, I want to take it from the top. Years ago, when I read for CRIS Radio, I never recorded all the stories in a given folder because each time I flubbed, I'd start over again. Until the day the engineer told me that it was OK to make a mistake, that it was more important for callers to be able to access all the stories. And then I eventually read stories live on the air and at that point, well, I had to just keep reading. I had no choice.

I am so very grateful to have such kind people in my life. Doreen and a host of others, cheerleaders without the embarrassment of pleated skirts and sweater vests. Friends who are always standing by, wanting what is best for me, knowing I can do more, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze.

Create, indeed.

I love this.

And Doreen, I love you.

Contemplating Bruce ...

2011-06-24T19:45:00.003-05:00

It's not because our Clarence died.

I'm sitting here, noticing the sun (which was gone all day), sipping some wine (should have bought the Cabernet), and contemplating Bruce (there's a lot to contemplate), because earlier today, my pal Aimes tagged me on Facebook, and asked me to name my favorite tune by The Boss.

You'd think I'd have a favorite. You'd think, given my love for the man. Given my collection. Given the number of times I've seen his shows. But a favorite Springsteen tune? One Springsteen tune that stands out above all others?

"I need parameters," I thought. "Favorite tune lyrically. Favorite tune to be performed live. Favorite album cut."

I was hedging. Favorite Springsteen tune. Whoever heard of such a thing?

The choice for Aimes is clear: "Thunder Road."

A great cut, sure. And who am I to disagree with her choice? I wouldn't. Why would I? That would be like telling someone that they're wrong about their favorite color.

But for me? Huh. I had no idea.

My first impulse was "Jungleland." But that might have been prompted by all the mentions it's been getting since Clarence died. His sax solo on that cut is legendary.

So then I thought of "If I Should Fall Behind": "We said we'd walk together baby come what may / That come the twilight should we lose our way / If as we're walkin' a hand should slip free / I'll wait for you / And should I fall behind / Wait for me."

Damn, those lyrics. They get me every time.

But then I thought of "Rosalita." If you've ever seen Bruce and the E Street Band perform "Rosalita," you understand.

But then I thought of "One Step Up." Though, really, my love for that song stems from a cover of it by Eddie Vedder.

Still, so much Bruce. So many reasons to love him.

I went to see him in Detroit the night before the release of "Devils & Dust." He opened the show with this spellbinding performance of "Reason to Believe." Seriously. I was transfixed. I remember realizing that I was holding my breath. How many artists are so extraordinary, they make you stop breathing?

I'm pretty sure I've breathed right through every other show I've ever been to. Well, McCartney. I may well have stopped breathing at McCartney. Just because I was in the presence of Paul McCartney.

But back to Bruce.

I hauled out my box of Bruce, to help me figure out what qualifies as my favorite Bruce tune ...

... and started flipping through discs. (Many of these were gifts. I have very kind, very generous friends.)

"Born to Run," obviously. But it's so obvious that I think everyone takes it as a given.

Watch.

"Sprung from cages out on highway 9 / Chrome wheeled, fuel injected / and steppin' out over the line."

Did you just throw your fists up in the air and yell "WHOA!"?

If you've ever been to Bruce show, that's exactly what you just did. That's exactly what everyone does at every show, house lights up, 20,000 people on their feet.

So, "Born to Run." That one's a given.

That leaves, oh, this many.

Hell, I can't even get out of the As without picking four contenders.

For many, like me and my friend Jay, Bruce took on an entirely new level of relevance after 9/11. "The Rising" was a balm that soothed our stricken souls. "You're Missing" and "My City Of Ruins"? What else is there to say? I still cry every time.

"Born in the U.S.A.", the whole album, the iconic cover, brought a lot of people into the Bruce fold with its hits like the title track and "Dancing In The Dark" and "Cover Me," but "Darlington County," "Working On The Highway," and "Downbound Train" are three of my favorites of his, all in a row. And then he comes in with "I'm On Fire" and it's all over. God DAMN, I love that song.

Then again, I'll always remember looking in the rear-view mirror, watching one of my nephews, when he was much younger than he is now, bopping around in the backseat to "I'm Goin' Down." Bruce is beloved by all ages.

You know what? This post is fun to write. But it's hopeless. I'll never be able to settle on a single Bruce song. I love so many for so many reasons. I'm grabbing each jewel case and flipping it over, thinking perhaps I can pick my favorite from each album. But I can't even do that.

"Red Headed Woman"? Awesome.

The Oscar-winning "Streets of Philadelphia"? Outstanding.

"Cadillac Ranch"? Saucy. (See? So many words already, and I'm just now touching on "The River." There's just too much Bruce goodness!)

"All Or Nothin' At All"? Infectious.

"Badlands," "Adam Raised A Cain," "Prove It All Night," "Darkness On The Edge Of Town"? Those are on one album.

You see my problem.

"She's The One"? You always have to experience that song from the very beginning.

Bruce's re-imagined "Blinded By The Light" from "Live In Dublin" is one of the most outstanding things you'll ever hear.

"Outlaw Pete"? Fabulous.

"The Promise," the two-disc set of the lost sessions from "Darkness On The Edge Of Town"? You have to own that, of course. Though if you're a serious Bruce fan, you'll already own the "box" set, which isn't a box set. The whole release is genius.

So, Aimes, this was an exercise in futility. But it was a fun way to spend some time.

I've never left a Bruce show sorry that he didn't play a certain tune. He always makes sure to give his fans the meat of his catalog and he always dishes up a generous serving of sides. But now with both Danny and Clarence gone, I wonder if he'll tour with a remade version of the E Street Band. Maybe this time, the days of the E Street Band really are over.

But I'm sure Bruce will continue to tour. And I'll continue to go. And he'll never disappoint.

Some Days ...

2011-06-21T20:51:00.001-05:00

There are days. And then there are days.

Some days are mundane, which is my own fault, I know.

And some days are sad. I feel like I have a little less power over those. Emotions are pushy bastards. They often get their way.

And then there are days when everything just gels. Not in big ways. The earth does not shatter, minds do not bend, but everything just clicks. Flows. Easy world, my friend Julia would call it. Easy world, indeed.

And today was one of those days. Goodness was everywhere. People helping people. Friends pursuing dreams.

Even in moments of extreme stress for some in my circle, the goodness came from them standing up for themselves and saying, "No more," and not buying into the drama of others for another day.

I like it here.

Clarence ...

2011-06-19T12:20:00.001-05:00

A couple of years ago, on the phone together, Dave and I watched Bruce perform the halftime show at the Super Bowl with the E Street Band. "You have to see Bruce on this next tour," I told him. "You have to see him perform with the E Street Band. It’s life-changing.”

Dave died, very unexpectedly, just a few days later.

And now the E Street Band will never be the same.

I wondered last night if Bruce will tour again. The band's loss of Danny Federici was great, but Clarence is truly irreplaceable. Bruce may be married to Patti Scialfa, but Clarence was, and will always be, Bruce's other half.

Can you imagine being the musician to try to step into The Big Man's shoes, even with The Boss's blessing?

So perhaps Bruce will tour solo. Or perhaps the E Street Band will once again find its way.

Regardless, while I'm very sad that Clarence is gone, I'm very glad that I had the opportunity to see him perform so many times.

Bruce's reverence for him was evident at every show. And last night, when I heard the news, one of the first Clarence thoughts that came to mind was Bruce's introduction of the band on the "Live in New York City" CD, during "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out," the song, they say, that tells the story of the band.

No one introduces a band like Bruce, and he always saved Clarence for last.

This is the cut. The introduction of Clarence begins at 11:42.

As Bruce asks the crowd, over and over, "Do I have to say his name?"

No, Bruce, you do not.

(If the embedded player doesn't render, the direct link is here.)

I love this striking image of Clarence and Bruce. Their mutual love and admiration was clear in every show.

A Lamp, A Lamp, My Kingdom (Such As It Is) For A Lamp ...

2011-06-17T11:47:00.002-05:00

My standards may be too high. Or too different. Because I have the damnedest time finding things for my house.

I've lived here coming up on 11 years. I still haven't found a rug for my bedroom. Now, granted, I've mostly stopped looking, and it's not like rugs just present themselves in my path every day, but really? In 11 years of being out and about, a rug hasn't caught my eye? A rug that will work? Nope.

I think I finally settled on FLOR carpet tiles for my TV room, but the FLOR people, bless their creative hearts, keep adding new products. Every catalog that arrives leaves me saying, "Ooh! Maybe these!" (I'm planning on mixing two styles.)

And so my latest home-decor frustration is my search for a lamp to perch upon this table:

Could it be any cooler?

My awesome $5 lamp won't work. It's just a wee bit too tall. (And I have yet to get a shade for it, and the one I was most inclined toward is no longer available, so I guess that wasn't the right shade after all.) And I have searched every lamp-y site I can think of, and keep my eyes open for lamps when I'm out and about.

Clearly, the right lamp is hiding out with my would-be bedroom rug.

I think the problem is in the looking. I didn't plan on buying the awesome table. It just appeared in front of me at my friend Lenore's (now-shuttered) store and I fell in love with it. But I didn't buy it and I didn't buy it and then she announced that she was closing and she marked everything down 25% and then, with a week left, she marked everything else down 30%, and there the table sat, forlornly, in the corner, surely feeling unloved.

So I had to give it a home. I am nothing if not compassionate when it comes to wayward furniture. Why, just yesterday, I saw that a coffee table I like is still for sale on Craigslist and it was all I could do not to call and go get it. I don't really have a place for it (though I suppose it would be happy enough in front of the couch in the basement for the time being), and I will not become one of those people who has to rent a storage locker because they have too much stuff.

So, I let the Craigslist table be. But I really do need a lamp for this table. Any suggestions? You can leave links in the comments and if you point me toward the lamp I buy, I'll totally bake a batch of cookies and send 'em your way!

The Customer Is Al- ... Eh, On Second Thought, Screw 'Em ...

2011-06-15T14:48:00.002-05:00

We've had a stormy spring, thunder and wind and rain.

Looking out my dining-room window, I can see some branches on the phone lines that run along the back edge of my yard. Big branches. Not wee branches. Dead leaves. Sad.

Being a fan of phone service – and an even bigger fan of DSL – I called AT&T to report the branches on the lines.

I figured AT&T would want to know. I would think that phone lines generally like to be free of debris.

A customer-service rep came on the line after just a few minutes – that was nice – and took my name and address and asked about my problem. I told him that I wanted to let AT&T know about the downed branches.

The gist of his reply was, "Yeah, we don't care."

What he said was something to the effect of, "We haven't had a tree-trimming service for, oh, at least a dozen years."

"I would think AT&T would want to maintain its equipment," I said.

"I apologize," he said.

"You don't need to apologize," I said. (I feel for CSRs. Theirs must be a very thankless job, bearing the brunt of anger in situations they had no hand in creating.) "I've done my due diligence. I've let you know about the problem. If AT&T doesn't care to do anything about it, that's its prerogative."

He thanked me and that was that.

So, given that AT&T doesn't care to address a known situation, I can only surmise that its plan in this instance is to either hope the limbs blow off the lines at some point or wait until the weight of the limbs takes down the lines, at which point I will suddenly be without phone service, and will need to contact the company again to let it know. Isn't that a good plan? Instead of responding to a customer who took the time to alert it to a problem, it would prefer to wait until that proactive customer (who believes she pays too much for phone service, by the way) is inconvenienced and then address the situation.

Gosh, isn't that just super swell?

So much for customer service.

Good Times, June Edition ...

2011-06-12T21:00:00.000-05:00

The June cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features sesame seed rings and Roditis-infused, sweetened cream cheese dip, the cookie interpretation of my travel fantasy.

Life As I Know It ...

2011-06-10T16:55:00.000-05:00

A week's worth of disruptions have kept me away. I miss it this place. Writing is my therapy, my way to think things through.

But normalcy is creeping back, and bringing with it a renewed appreciation for all those I am blessed to have in my life.

In dark times, the goodness of people shines through.

Makes Beth Happy, June 3 ...

2011-06-03T22:01:00.002-05:00

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Firm!
Say it a few times. It's funny.

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Cream Biscuits

Two ingredients, people! TWO!

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Gen-Lite Rossini Chrome Two-Light Table Lamp with Black Rugate Fabric Shade and Crystal Accents

This lamp is the antithesis of a cream biscuit, but that's what I love about them both! One is super, super simple, humble, modest, and beige. And the other is super, super fancy, the lampy equivalent of a night on the town. Yay, contrast!