Today I reached my food tipping point.

This morning I got one of those recipe chain letters.  It’s simple:  send one recipe to one person, pick 20 friends and forward the chain, add my name at the bottom.  Delicious recipes would start flowing in.  All I had to do was one click.

Making this decision wasn’t brain surgery:

I hate chain letters.

I already refused to do this exact chain letter three times in the last 3 weeks.

More to the point, I don’t even like to cook.

I clicked.

What would possess me—in a moment of temporary culinary blindness—-to comply?   I have no clue.

I dutifully choose 20 friends who might actually enjoy getting or giving recipes;   I think  I’m being a pretty good sport.  And it isn’t long before the emails start flowing in.

Not recipes.  Rejections.

“I’m out of town this week….”"

“Sorry, I adore you  but not this much….”

“I’m surprised people still do these;  there are so many recipes  on the internet.  (This I know.  I posted about a recipe site yesterday. )

Even my sister turned me down.  And she loves to cook.

And I don’t blame them.   So I’m throwing in the dish towel.   This is my official apology— and my solemn promise never to send a chain letter again.

This is also an official warning to anyone who continues sending them to me.    (You know who you are.  And I happen to know the person who sent a recipe chain is even less functional in the kitchen than I am.)

Actually the best part happened just now.   As I’m about to post this, I hear my Blackberry, so I check the message.   It’s another chain letter.

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I see a lot of movies and I don’t often mention them.  But this time I have to make an exception.  For a couple reasons:  goats and George Clooney.

After my recent goat sightings, I figured this had to be a winning combination.

Wrong.    There ARE goats in the movie—-and they come off better than their fellow actors.

And it takes A LOT for me to want to stop staring at George Clooney.

I’m writing this also because I don’t read reviews.  I knew nothing about this movie.   Just before we left to see it tonight, a friend wrote on her Facebook page that it was “pretty dumb”.    I didn’t heed her warning—-and now I feel compelled to pay it forward.

Kind of like a public service announcement.

Personally I’m still a sucker for George.  But honestly, if you want entertainment involving goats, you’ll get more reading Margaret’s blog, Nanny Goats in Panties.

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(That was a rhetorical question, by the way.)

If you DO like to cook—then trust me on this:  instead of hanging out with me today,  you’ll want to be with my friend Myra on a fabulous food site.   So stop reading and click on this link right now.

And come back tomorrow.  I will, too.

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Actually that’s been one of the hardest parts of learning to live in a small town.  Especially this small town—where they roll up the sidewalk at 6 and you can barely get  a cup of coffee after it gets dark.

Though my party scene lately has been fueled by something else.

Not what you’re thinking.   I mean  Estrogen.

My birthday parties,  the trip to Big Sur, to the Women’s Conference; it’s been a female fest.    Including last night when my friend Mary returned from a trip to Greece and invited a few women over to sample her first stab at Greek cooking.    All homemade, all heavenly.

Moussaka.  Soutzoukakia.   Homemade tzatkiki sauce. ( There’s no way I’d manage to match the names with the right pictures.)

….and a frozen chocolate log “Mosaico”— butter cookies crumbled and dipped in brandy, then wrapped in an intense mousse mixture frozen into a log.   Obviously  a dessert the Greeks  (and Mary) created with me in mind.

Typically, with a group of women, nothing is spicier than the conversation.   In keeping with the Greek theme, we covered everything from alpha to omega.

Then I discovered  a little glitch in my social life:  though I didn’t know half of the guests till I arrived, they were warned about my blog beforehand.  And I was warned afterwards:  though my life  is an open book, not everyone wants to be a chapter.

I might have to switch to writing fiction.  Or a cookbook.

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Not losing sweaters and jackets.

Getting school permissions slips signed and turned in on time.

Not forgetting lunchboxes at home  (okay,  just once or twice)

Now they’re older– and they’ve turned into two responsible adults.

They fill out their own forms and applications.

They handle their own finances.

They remember to write thank you notes without being reminded.

People who know my kids often ask me— what’s the secret?    I give a little Mona Lisa smile, taking full credit for accomplishing such a miracle.

The truth was no miracle.   My secret weapon was: cancer.  (Note to Parents: Don’t try this at home.)

My daughter was 11; my son had just turned 7.    Fighting cancer consumed my energy, leaving little left over to fight my tendency to be disorganized.

I had no choice—I released the persona who’d been hidden all those years…..Slacker Mom. And guess who picked up the slack.

So here’s  a little insight:   If you’re a responsible parent who keeps track of schedules,  gets kids everywhere on time, efficiently organizes the family calendar—-you’ll never raise a responsible kid.   Because you’re doing it all wrong.

Experts may say you’re modeling the correct behavior —but I say you’re just creating co-dependent adults, rather than the independent adults I’ve created.  Why should kids learn for themselves —and more importantly, HOW should they learn for themselves—when you’re doing everything for them?

I compare it to defensive driving.  You learn to be a good driver by avoiding the terrible drivers around you.  So you learn to take responsibility by avoiding the irresponsible people around you.

Like…(cough, cough)…me.

Here’s an example that just happened the other day.

My son Daniel, a college junior, is planning to study abroad for a semester.  Of course he’s taking charge.

I know the country where he plans to go; but that’s pretty much it.  He does all the research online, finds a program that works, seeks out people to contact about the program, and plans well in advance.

Over the summer, the last time he was home,  he asked me if I had his passport. I asked why; he said he wanted to be sure it wasn’t expired.

He was  shocked surprised that I was able to produce the passport within minutes.  (You would be shocked, too, if you’ve seen my desk)

I gave it to him; it wasn’t expired; and he said he wanted to keep it himself.  So he took it and put it away upstairs in his room.

I didn’t ask why.  He’s 21; it seemed reasonable. (It didn’t occur to me that he wanted it himself because he didn’t want ME to have it.)

The other day he calls from school, saying he needs the passport for some forms he’s filling out.  I’m reluctant to send it; it’s safe here.  So he suggests that I scan it, and send a copy of the page he needs.

I’m impressed with myself just for knowing how to use a scanner.  I’m also proud to report that I did this, and I emailed him what he needed that very day.

A few days go by.

The other night Daniel calls.

DANIEL: “Mom, did you  put my passport back in my drawer?

My mind scans back a couple days.  Shit.

ME: “I don’t think so, honey.”

Parents: this part will probably sound familiar:

DANIEL: “Will you please get the passport and put it back?”

Me:  “Sure, I will.”

I start to hang up.

Parents: I bet you’ve heard that before. And I bet you say the same thing Daniel says next.

Daniel: “Can you please do it right now?”

Parents:  Notice I do not have to repeat myself, and remind my children to do things.  I just have to endure the humiliation.

ME: “Okay.”

DANIEL:  “Great.   I’ll hold on.”

And he does.

He holds on while I get the passport out of the scanner where it’s been for 3 days,  take it upstairs and put it back safely in Daniel’s drawer.

….and they lived happily ever after.

Cross-posted on Silicon Valley Moms Blog.

Also posted on  50-Something Moms Blog.

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I read her bio in the program, just before she spoke at a luncheon I attended today.   And she didn’t exactly have me at “hello.”

“Just what I need,”  I thought.  “Besides cancer and Alzheimer’s , a new thing to worry about:  getting a stroke.”

That’s Taylor’s story—a 37 year old  brain scientist at Harvard who had a stroke— which rendered her totally disabled, unable to walk, speak, read, or remember anything.    And how she recovered,  gaining insights into the workings of the brain and its ability to recover—which she shares to motivate other stroke survivors around the world.

I don’t even understand science.   Yet  I was riveted.  So was everyone else in the room.

It would be hard for me to do justice to her, so I’ll just say this.   I probably should add strokes to my list of things to worry about—although she gave us a way to remember the warning signs, which spell out the word “STROKE”:

S–Speech problems

T–tingles or numbness

R–remembering difficulties

O–off-balance

K–killer headache

E–Eye problems or vision problems

In addition, I have a new appreciation for the power of the 50 trillion cells that she calls the molecular geniuses that make up our bodies.  I have a new desire to strike a balance between the right and the left sides of my brain.   And I have a new-found admiration for Taylor herself-– who on top of her scientific pursuits —is also a singer and an artist who makes anatomically correct versions of the brain in stained glass.

I have to admit, it’s beautiful.  The stained glass, and the brain itself.

Click here to learn more, see the video or read the book)

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As a breast cancer survivor, I’ve always  followed that rule.

Life is short.   I  feel  amazingly lucky just to be here; to be alive;  blessed by extra time I didn’t expect to have—so far, 14 years and counting.

I’ve always felt young and optimistic and full of life and a sense of possibility with all that’s still ahead of me.  And yet lately there’s something else.   I feel a little window starting to close, and a new idea dawning—-” I might only have a few good years left.”

Suddenly, just being here doesn’t feel like enough.  I want….MORE.

I feel myself starting to flip— from grateful to greedy.  And I’m not sure how this happened.

Maybe it’s  from spending a day recently in Big Sur.    Just being there you immediately enter a time warp.    Big Sur is the same; and I feel the same—just like I did when I stopped there on a cross-country trip, and we spent a night in Pfeiffer State Park—the night I turned 21.   Wasn’t that a few years ago—not a few decades?

Maybe it was hearing a friend mention her son is turning 40.   How was that possible?  Didn’t we just turn 40 ourselves?  My brain could NOT comprehend the math.

Or maybe it was the cartwheel.

The other day I was in a park.  Families were out on the grass enjoying the beautiful day.    I saw a young mom with her kids.  Suddenly the mom stood up and did a cartwheel.    I flashed on myself  as a young mom, doing cartwheels with my kids in our backyard.

The mental memory was crystal clear.  When suddenly I had an equally clear physical memory.  In that flash, my body remembered exactly how it felt to do a cartwheel.     I’m incredibly lucky that I feel almost no aches and pains of age.   But my body still sent a clear message to my brain:  and I knew without a doubt—in a flash of insight– that my cartwheeling days are over;  I have done my last cartwheel for the rest of my life.

An epiphany.  It wasn’t that I was sad; I was stunned.

Which maybe explains why I felt compelled to enter one of those kids’ bounce houses.  I saw it set up in a friend’s backyard for a birthday party later this week—and I had to go in.

Cartwheels won’t cut it for me anymore,  but jumping still does.   Marcus is turning 3 this week—and I think I had as much fun as he did.

Life is short.  Eat dessert first.

I’m jumping eating as much as I can.

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There are some advantages to an empty nest.   With the kids gone,  you can act like kids.

Here’s how V and I spent the night:  No costumes.  No handing out candy.  No tricks.

Just treats.    We went to a slumber party.

Not a big party;  just us sleeping over at Jane’s….so we wouldn’t have to drive home.   I HIGHLY recommend this.

I also recommend— for the ultimate sleepover experience —-you find a friend like Jane—-always generous and gifted….. who invites you to a fantastic homecooked dinner….provides the finest quality bathrobes and an ocean-view room…..

….complete with bags of See’s chocolate on the pillow….and rose petals!

It’s a full service resort, Chez Jane.

But hey, I did contribute something to this memorable evening:….

P.S.  I’d rather have that Post Ranch Chocolate creme brulee. Or anything chocolate.  But Spotted Dick tasted way better than it sounds.

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No excitement.  No carving pumpkins.  No parties.  No trick or treating.    No costumes.

No more making memories.

I miss  it.   And what I miss most—- those little plastic pumpkins that come home filled up and I get to steal sort the kids’ candy.

Boo-hoo.  And Happy Halloween to you!

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I say this with due respect—-and new respect—for what California’s First Lady accomplished at this conference:  for me, although the Women’s Conference was powerful, it wasn’t about empowering.

Possibly that’s due to where I stand—part of the pioneer generation of women.   I look back at where we were, and I think women are already empowered.   Instead,  the Women’s Conference—and the times—represent another significant change—one that also begins with  “em”.

For me, the conference was less about  empowerment and more about emotion.

It started—appropriately enough—with Eve.   Not the biblical Eve,  I mean Eve Ensler.    The woman who made it popular to carry on monologues about our vaginas….is moving up….geographically speaking….to our hearts.

Her own emotion– and her passion— rocked and roiled the Long Beach Convention Center like a tsunami….as she read from her upcoming book: I am an EMOTIONAL Creature: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World.

I thought this might be the emotional high point of the day—-but the emotions were just getting started.   If Eve was a hurricane, other speakers were the storm surge— in a day filled with emotional, memorable moments.   There was Somaly Mam ‘s saga of her life of slavery in the brothels of Cambodia, then her return to help thousands of others escape.   Katie Couric’s odyssey of resilence— both professional and personal—told with honesty and humor.

I thought about all the times I’ve heard  woman say, “I’m an emotional mess” —when I heard ABC anchor Robin Roberts repeat her mother’s mantra:  “Make your mess your message.”  (I love that one.)

And the waves of emotion continued,  peaking  during the session on Grief, Healing and Resilience.

Probably there is no more indelible and undeniable  part of the human experience—- than grief, loss and suffering.   Nothing is more painful;  nothing is more private.

So possibly nothing is more profound than 4 amazingly brave women who open their hearts, take their most private emotions and express them in public. This conversation was a symbolic, powerful gesture that will resound and ripple into countless other lives—-effectively multiplying the emotional impact—-as others take in the emotions, share them, and learn by example.   All around me, women  sat stunned and sobbing in their seats, listening to  four remarkable women:

Reed Saxon/AP photos

Lisa Niemi, widow of Patrick Swayze,  making her first public appearance since his death two months ago.

Susan Saint James— —so real, so raw, so authentic,  so open about the loss of her 14-year-old son Teddy.

Elizabeth Edwards,   who has lived several versions of every woman’s nightmare …. and is still standing….strong.

Maria Shriver—embodiment of everything powerful;   yet, in her own words, “brought to her knees” by an event that is a natural and inevitable part of life,  the loss of her mother.

Maria’s comments about her mother as her touchstone were echoed later by  Jane Goodall,  the essence of  elegance and eloquence.  Her emotional words of gentle grace and quiet dignity, mixed with her amazing rendition of simian sound, sent us on our way as we left for home, taking our emotions with us as we re-enter our own lives.

After being immersed and inspired by incredible stories, for me, the take-home message of this enormous energetic coming together —-is something we can all see  reinforced every day in ourselves and in the other women around us:

Instead of our emotions as a source of weakness,  our emotions are a source of our strength.

To me the power of this conference—-and the power of women as individuals and as a group—comes from embracing those emotions—by letting our emotions rule us  in a positive way—-and by harnessing our emotions to change our  lives, and to change the world.

(Click here to see videos from the conference)

Cross-posted on the Huffington Post

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