Plate Spinning 101

Weekend? What Weekend?

2013-04-14T23:23:00.003-05:00

I was dreading this weekend. I really was. Jam packed with activities and obligations, it wasn't going to resemble the traditional 48 hour breather. Not one bit.

It all started Friday morning. Son #2 who, a few weeks back, spent his spring break recuperating from surgery to repair his deviated septum, was in town for a follow-up with the plastic surgeon. Let me back up a bit. The boy's nose was broken five years ago in a gym class mishap. The first two surgeries he had to rebuild and repair his nose didn't take. This time, we went to a world-renowned specialist who didn't disappoint.

In short, my son no longer resembles a hockey player who had a close encounter with a high-speed puck and the chances that he'll be able to breathe out of both nostrils once the swelling finally goes down are most excellent.

As such, my son and I flew downtown after dropping my youngest off at school. Afterwards, we had to come flying back to the 'burbs so I could pick son #4 up from school, followed by son #5, then finally son #3.

That evening, though, son #2 and I headed off to a Chris Tomlin concert. It was - as my youngest would say, "fantab"! Not the type of concert at which you'd find me spilling beer on myself or standing in my seat or anything (not that I ever did that, but I've heard of people who have), but I did sing along at the top of my lungs and joined the crowd in using my cell phone like it was a lighter to demand an encore. Crazy, I know, but true.

I went to sleep at midnight. Saturday morning, my alarm went off at 6:30 and I shot out of bed. I had to get son #3 to his ACT exam. On time.

With a calculator, three number 2 pencils and a photo ID in hand, I dropped him off and sped back home to pick up son #2. He had a bus to catch downtown that would take him back to campus. As we were just about to enter downtown proper, son #1 called. Seems, after taking an exam that will propel him to career greatness, he found himself on the Magnificent Mile not far from where son #2 would be catching his bus.

And we had forty-five minutes to kill. What are the chances?

After a delightful, albeit brief, catch-up with my eldest, I deposited one boy at a bus stop and the other at a train station so they could return to their respective campuses and I headed back to suburbia.

Still with me? Good!

I zipped along the expressway, calculating if I had enough time to stop at the store before retrieving son #3 from his ACT test site. Defying the laws of physics (and the state police), I made it back to my 'hood with thirty minutes to spare. Dare I chance it? I decided to brave the Saturday morning grocery store crowds. It was my Dad's 83rd birthday and I had a party to host, dammit.

Blowing through the store with the force of a megaton bomb, I made it to the test site right on time. As I pulled into the pick-up zone, I got a text from son #3.

"Kirsten is giving me a ride home."

I replied, "I just got here."

His reply? "Sorry."

I drove home mulling my options. Yes, I could guilt him into cleaning the house top to bottom for me, but on realizing that saner people would've arranged a car pool situation ahead of time, I decided to drop it.

But I did make him vacuum. And dust. And clean the upstairs bathroom. Then I let him chill. He did, after all, just take a really, really hard test...

By four pm, my house was filled with relatives, the grill was hot and the steaks were thawed and seasoned. By seven pm, the guests were gone. By nine, I was in bed.

Today, in comparison, was sublime. Mass this morning, band concert at the high school this afternoon. Piece of cake. A lesser plate spinner would've caved to self-pity. Not that I ever did that, but I've heard of other spinners who have.

So Much To Do, So Much Time

2013-04-08T13:42:00.001-05:00

Since getting laid off from my full-time day job on the last day of 2012, I find I am just as busy as I was before, but things are definitely different.

First and foremost, my stress level has dropped significantly. I know this goes without saying. Working forty-plus hours a week while taking care of a large family and elderly parents, volunteering and trying to launch my freelance writing career while stalking literary agents would make anyone's blood pressure rise, right?

Funny thing is, I miss it.

The adrenaline that kept me going (along with lots of caffiene and refined sugar) left me feeling more productive than ever. The word count of my to-do lists rivaled that of "Gone With the Wind" and I was spinning my plates at warp speed.

Still, there were moments when I actually wished for a bit of a break - a sabbatical, if you will. I'd fling myself full-time into my freelance career, publish not one, not two, but maybe all three of my manuscripts, all while purging every closet of clutter and doing a deep clean on my entire house.

Be careful what you wish for...

When everything came to an abrupt halt, I reeled. Which freelance endeavor should I focus on first? Which manuscript should I hawk the loudest? Which closet should I tackle? Are the cobwebs behind the entertainment unit really that bad?

Thankfully, my boys' schedules remained the same and this gave my days some structure.

I filled the hours with making stick-to-their-ribs dinners, baking way too many batches of cookies, logging mile after mile to burn off said cookies, and curling up with books I'd put aside for way too long - only they weren't written by me.

I struggled long and hard with the writing projects I never seemed to have enough time for when I was working and I couldn't figure out why.

Were my aspirations to become a full-time freelancer misguided? Had I convinced myself that a spot on the coveted NY Times bestseller list was not mine to have?

Then my husband nailed it. I had too much time on my hands. The urgency was gone.

This revelation hit me like a thunder clap. Of course, he was right. Just take a look at the number of posts I published on this blog last year compared to this. The numbers speak for themselves.

But no worries.

I'm back. The dark circles under my eyes may be gone, but I am back.

As my wise mother keeps telling me, all things happen for a reason. And she's right. If I hadn't been laid off, I wouldn't have been home to take care of my second oldest son when he recuperated from a recent surgery. My dad would've missed a number of doctor's appointments that my sibs were unable to get him to. My middle son would've been scorned by his peers who demanded that he bring homemade muffins to his high school English class when it was his turn to bring breakfast. The list goes on.

Still, I do yearn for the days when my level of productivity is not measured by loads of laundry washed and folded, but by the number of procedures tested and documented.

I can dream, can't I?

In the meantime, I'd better go. I smell a batch of snicker doodles burning in the kitchen...

Working Mother Makes Lots of Dough

2013-03-05T17:35:00.000-06:00

Sensational headline? I think not.

I have been stuck inside with three boys who are reveling in their wholly-unexpected, but thoroughly appreciated snow day.

Trusting they would use their pent up energy for good and not evil purposes, I instructed them to check homework they had completed the night before to ensure they really did do their best and then shovel.

Beyond that, I fully expected that they would make themselves nourishing meals and snacks and clean up after themselves.

So confident I was in my sons' strength of character that I hid in my office for a couple of hours so I could prep my manuscript for submission to unsuspecting acquisition editors.

However, when I ventured into the kitchen at approximately 11am, I found dishes piled high in the sink and a half-empty pancake mix box sitting open on the counter that was sprinkled with chocolate chips - an ingredient I hate to see squandered. At least five inches of snow sat in our un-shoveled driveway.

"Boys!' I yelled with no small amount of urgency. An avalanche of snow cascaded from the roof above and tumbled onto the back deck.

As they stood before me, I asked, "Why are there chocolate chips all over the counter?"

"We made pancakes. It's what the recipe called for," my youngest boldly explained.

I sent two out to shovel while the pancake maker stayed inside with me and helped clean up the kitchen. By the time the others came back inside, it was time for lunch.

I informed them that there were plenty of sandwich fixings and returned to my book. A few minutes later, there was a tap on the door.

"We're out of bread." It was the older half of my shoveling crew.

I dashed back to the kitchen, certain I had purchased some just yesterday during my mad rush to stock up on chocolate in advance of the storm.

As I suspected, there, smack in the middle of the kitchen table was the new unopened loaf. I turned to my son, eyebrow raised and asked, "Well?"

"I don't like that kind," he said matter-of-factly.

"Too bad," I replied. "I'm not driving to the store in this weather just to get a different kind of bread."

"Can we make some?"

At this point, I was ready to screech, "Do I look like Martha Stewart to you?"

But, I didn't.

I remembered that my Mom would bake rye bread on snow days. Yummy, chewy, warm homemade rye bread slathered in butter.

My mouth began watering and I peered into the most remote corners of my pantry, looking for the ingredients. Certain I had everything I needed, I countered my son's request with something a little more delicate. A challenge, if you will.

"Only if you help me."

Lacking the enviable upper arm strength that I'm sure our pioneer ancestors flaunted, I gave him the job of kneading the dough. For ten minutes. It is, after all, what the recipe calls for.

Mom's Swedish Rye Bread

2 packets active dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water
1/4 brown sugar
1/4 cup molasses
1 tbls salt
2 tbls shortening
1 1/2 cups hot water
2 1/2 rye flour, sifted
3 tbls. caraway seeds, optional
3 1/2-4 cups of flour

(Preheat oven to 375 degrees.)

Softened the active dry yeast in 1/4 cup warm water in a large mixing bowl. Set aside.
In another bowl, mix brown sugar, molasses, salt and shortening. Add hot water and stir until sugar dissolves. Cool to lukewarm.
Stir in sifted rye flour. Beat well.
Add yeast and caraway seeds. Stir in additional flour.
Cover with a clean towel and let rest for 10 minutes.
Sprinkle clean surface with flour. Knead dough for 10 minutes.
Place dough in lightly greased bowl. Cover and let rise in warm place until it doubles (about 1 1/2 hours).
Punch down dough, turn out onto clean surface and separate into two pieces of dough. Form them into balls. Return them to two separate lightly greased bowls and cover for 10 minutes.
Pat balls into round loaves. Place on greased cookie sheet. Cover with clean towel and let rise until double (about 1 1/2 hours).
Bake for 25-35 minutes. For softer crust, brush with melted butter.

The Great Snow Day Debate

2013-03-04T22:17:00.000-06:00

Impending deadlines aside, wth a "winter storm warning" in effect from the wee hours of tomorrow morning until midnight tomorrow night, my first instinct was to rush to the store earlier today.

Like a football player with the ball tucked securely in the crux of his elbow as he dives over a mass of bodies huddled on the one yard line, I threw myself into the crowd fighting for the last cart.

Elbowing my way around the greedy shoppers, protecting my kitchy clutch like a coveted game ball, I made a beeline for their well-stocked supply of, you guessed it - chocolate, while the others scurried through the aisles, stocking up on carb-rich supplies like bread and beer (liquid bread, really).

As I approached the mob at the checkout line, the harried cashier took one look at my measly purchase and pointed to the end of the line located back by the freezer section. After several minutes of enduring the glare of other parents, their carts overflowing with enough food to last them through Memorial Day, I thought it best to blend and threw some milk and eggs in my cart for good measure.

Two hours later, I arrived home with my stash.

Was it worth it? Let me put it this way - there is no way, on God's white Earth, that I am going to weather this snowflake tsunami without a little cold cocoa comfort.

My boys, on the other hand, displayed a different reaction entirely. As soon as they heard rumor of the meteorological warning, they crossed their fingers and toes, hoping that school is cancelled tomorrow.

For the record, this plate-spinning telecommuter has mixed feelings about snow days.

On one hand, a day off for the boys means that I don't have to worry about making lunches and getting them to and fro. I could focus on my work. The only interruption in my day would be shouting out rosters for the shoveling shifts.

On the other hand, I'd have to field the inevitable requests to help with boots and snow pants, dole out hot chocolate, and ensure that they spend at least some of their new-found freedom on studying at least a little bit and practicing their instruments.

My personal opinions aside, every single weather authority agrees that we are in for a winter wonderland version of Armageddon.

So confident am I in their forecasts that I don't even plan to set my alarm. I just know that I'll be awoken by the velvety voice of our school district's superintendent, informing me of the cancellation.

Now if I could just get him to keep a door unlocked for me at one of the schools so I could sneak in and get my work done there...I'd even give him some of my chocolate.

What Price Romance?

2013-02-12T20:24:00.000-06:00

Drooling as I do over jewelry ads this time of year, I can never seem to find anything that would serve as ample evidence of my husband's affection for me. Lucky for him, bummer for me.

I have waxed nostalgic over my lost engagement ring before. Custom made, replacing it with a new bit of bling simply doesn't hold any appeal.

Besides, as the years pass, any big ticket items we get usually end up in my kitchen or garage, not on my finger.

A few years back though, my husband came up with a unique gift idea to demonstrate his affection for me. Nearly twenty years into our marriage, our everyday dishes - the pattern I fell in love with while registering for wedding gifts - were reduced to a few sad chipped and scuffed pieces. Scouring every Goodwill in the county, he surprised me with a fully replenished set.

Sure, he probably only coughed up twenty bucks, but it doesn't matter. He still managed to sweep me off my gravy boat (and matching ladle).

This year, my expectations were not high. I mean, how do you top that? But, once again, my betrothed delivered a truly novel gift and a week early to boot!

Coming home after a long day slaving over tax returns, he couldn't wait to deliver the news.

Turns out, he got a new client.

Turns out, he was able to get her a better-than-expected return.

Turns out - and here's the best part - she used to work in the publishing industry.

My husband, typically the bubble burster to my full-time-novelist-slash-New-York-Times-best-seller-list dreams, coolly announced, "Really? My wife's a writer."

He proceded to google me and show this lovely client a sampling of my literary escapades.

OK, I was wrong. This is the best part. She said, "Have her call me. I'm still in touch with some acquisition editors. If she's got a manuscript, I'd be happy to put it in front of them."

He looked at me expectantly. All I could say was, "You had me at, 'My wife's a writer.'"

Just to put this in perspective, my bean counter cabana boy, the one who knows exactly where we stand in the financial scheme of things 24/7, just endorsed my dream - and likely nabbed himself the coveted role as president of my future fan club.

And it didn't cost him a red cent. Maybe the best things in life really are free.

Happy Valentine's Day to all and to all a (fill in desired gift of choice here)!

Backing Away From the Fiscal Cliff

2012-12-31T10:23:00.001-06:00

Like most kids, mine are largely oblivious to what is going on in the world. As long as they have clothes on their backs, food in their stomachs, and well-charged cell phones, they’re pretty much good to go.

As such, my husband and I usually watch the evening news together for what essentially boils down to thirty minutes of cherished “alone” time.

Over the years, I’ve done my best to preserve my sons’ innocence by shielding them from the violence and corruption that often permeates the news media. Right or wrong, I’d much prefer that their sleep not be disturbed by news of school shootings or the frailty of the economic recovery. What’s the sense in all of us being up at three in the morning?

As a result, with the exception of the occasional social studies assignment, they’ve had little interest in current affairs. But one topic has managed to sneak through - the fiscal cliff.

Like a bad infestation of termites, the topic has wormed its way into our dinner table conversations and bedtime prayers. When my ten year old asked what would happen if our country actually goes over the cliff, my husband waved him off with a smile and said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine.”

This response seemed to satisfy him, for a while.

Then he asked, “Where’s fiscal?”

Huh?

Once I explained that fiscal was a financial term and not a place, his fear that the Lower 48 was about to slide over a massive cliff named “Fiscal” somewhere out in the dessert was abated. He donned his Batman cape and went on his merry way.

Calming our older boys, however, has not been as easy. As much as we have tried to convince them that the impending financial maelstrom will not have that large of an impact on us, their college plans are on the forefront of all of our minds. Our two oldest have their sites set on graduate school and our third son, a high school junior, is just starting to shop schools.

Here’s what worries me the most: the fact that, as citizens, we’re relegated to the sidelines like spectators at grand sporting match, years in the making. We watch helplessly, knowing that there is no possibility of victory for either side. We stare, mouths agape, as our elected officials stick their thumbs in their ears and blow raspberries across the aisles. With so much at stake, we can’t help but marvel at the bipartisan folly.

But one thing is certain. Whatever happens, come the new year, we know that we’ll be fine as long as we have clothes on our backs, food in our stomachs and well-charged cell phones.

The Chocolate Bourbon Cake That Saved Christmas

2012-12-26T11:02:00.002-06:00

Christmas, once again, snuck up on me this year. While I had decked the halls on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I just wasn't catching the holiday spirit. Everything seemed so...what's the word? Obligatory!

A week and a half before the big day, I shook off my doldrums and picked out a family photo to feature on our annual seasons greeting (which reminds me - I'd like to give a big shout out to our local drug store for their same day service and most lucrative coupon). I had our Christmas cards addressed and inserted into the post office's drop box the very next day. Go me.

My husband and I spent the remainder of the week procuring the rest of the items on our family's wish lists. But, I just couldn't shake the blahs despite having so much to look forward to: singing with the church choir on Christmas Eve, watching my youngest sing with the children's choir, opening presents Christmas morning, and going to my oldest sister's afterwards for brunch (and more presents).

It all seemed so routine this year. While I didn't let my mood degrade into a full-fledge "ba humbug!" (I did, afterall, bake some delectable Bohemian Christmas cookies to set out for the big guy), I just felt so ho-ho-hum.

Then my other sister, the one who had joined us for Christmas dinner with our parents last night and the very same one who could knock the spatulas out of all those sad reality show pastry chefs, served dessert - a Woodward Reserve Chocolate Cake.

O.M.G.

As my loyal readers well know, I am as fond of chocolate as a fish is of water. But this cake, decadent and delicious, cast a spell over all who ate it. After the first bite, my father - normally, a stoic, reserved, and sometimes grouchy man was possessed by a mischievous Christmas elf.

My mother sat to his right, dutifully reading my middle child's article that was prominently featured in his student newspaper, a piece of cake on the table before her. After my father downed his piece of cake, unbeknownst to everyone except my eldest, he swiped his wife's.

Realizing that his deed did not go unnoticed, he winked at the witness. This, in turn, prompted a round of giggles I haven't participated in since the Great Sock Fight of 2001.

Before long, my eldest was able to parlay what had just happened to my sister who, in turn, told me. But, having just taken a ginormous bite of my own piece, I was unable to relay the tale to my spouse seated directly to my right.

By the time I could verbalize again, my mother had finished reading my boy's literary effort, put the paper down and asked, "What happened to my cake?" which prompted an uproarious round of laughter. At this point, my dear old dad's face was contorted into a wince and his eyes were watering. Knowing he couldn't pull off an innocent expression to save his life, he did his best to tame his grin into a serious one.

Laughter. It is the best medicine. And just so you have plenty to go around at your own table, here is a recipe for the tonic*:

Woodford Reserve Chocolate Cake

Serves 16, generously

Ingredients

1¾ cups strong coffee
¼ cup Woodford Reserve bourbon
½ pound unsalted butter
3 ounces unsweetened chocolate
2 ounces bittersweet chocolate
2 cups granulated sugar

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 well beaten, large eggs
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon finely ground pepper
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions

1. Combine coffee and Woodford Reserve, butter and chocolate and simmer over very low heat till butter and chocolate have melted. Whisk mixture to incorporate.

2. Add sugar and stir till dissolved. Let mixture cool 10 minutes.

3. While mixture is cooling, sift remaining dry ingredients together. Using a whisk, incorporate flour mixture into the liquid, making sure that all flour is dissolved.

4. Whisk in beaten eggs and vanilla extract.

5. Place finished batter into a 9-inch springform pan that has been buttered and dusted with cocoa.

6. Bake at 275 F for 1½ hours or until a knife inserted into the center of the cake comes out just holding a couple of crumbs.

7. Cool cake entirely before removing from the pan.

8. This cake has never met an icing it didn't like! Woodford bakers prefer caramel.

Chocolate Frosting
3/4 cup good quality unsweetened cocoa (I use Ghirardelli)
3 cups confectioners’ sugar
1 stick of softened butter
3 - 4 tablespoons of half-and-half or heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

Sift together cocoa and confectioners' sugar in a bowl. In another bowl (I use the bowl of my stand mixer for this) combine 1 cup of this mixture with the butter and a tablespoon of cream and beat until smooth. Add vanilla. Add the rest of the sugar mixture alternately with cream all the while beating well. If mixture seems dry, add more cream carefully until the consistency is just right for spreading on the top and sides of the cake.

*My sis, who originally pulled this recipe off of shine.yahoo.com, put about two to three tablespoons of bourbon in the frosting, even though the recipe doesn't call for it.

What Your Holiday Card Photo Says About You

2012-12-13T09:24:00.001-06:00

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the one you include in your holiday greetings need only be worth two, maybe three, tops:

"Merry Christmas!"
"Happy Hanukkah!"
"Seasons Greetings!"
"Happy New Year!"

But, let's be honest. When picking the perfect holiday photo, the message we're all attempting to blast is: "Are we the perfect family, or what?"

It should come as no surprise then that many families overcompensate and choose several photos to get the message across. If one photo doesn't do the trick, certainly a collage of smiling faces should, right?

Maybe perfection just isn't my thing. After all, my family isn't perfect. In fact, we're far from it. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Sure, when my boys were little, I made a weak attempt to dress them in holiday garb. I had hoped that it would make up for the fact that I couldn't get a single photo of them all smiling at once.

Take Exhibit A here. One child is hamming it up, one is bored, one is overdue for a nap and one is in a box. But, seeing that their clothes are so dang adorable, does any of that really matter?

I. Think. Not.

Through the years, I've abandoned the holiday-themed attire and selected instead any picture that had all of my guys in it. It didn't matter if it was taken in August for the first day of school or in October when they were hunting for pumpkins or raking leaves. All I needed was evidence that there were, at one point, doing something together.

One thing I have not done is the destination photo. You know, those cards. The ones in which, behind a groups' entitled grins, you can spy palm trees and surf or catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower or Big Ben.

But it's not for lack of trying. The one of us all sitting around the table for breakfast at Paul Bunyan's up in the Wisconsin Dells? Two of us are blinking and three are not even looking at the camera. And that one of us gathered, most ecstatically, in the middle of Main Street USA in Disney world? Camera strap right through the middle of the shot.

Oh well, maybe this year's will be the best so far. The matching Santa cardigans should be arriving any day now...

A Plate Spinner's Disaster Preparedness Plan

2012-12-10T13:02:00.000-06:00

These days, a quick glance at the headlines can be enough to convince anybody that the end must surely be near, what with all of the earthquakes, mega storms, drought, global financial meltdowns, genocide, and perhaps most alarming - the sudden absence of Twinkies from store shelves.

So what can a busy plate spinner do to prepare?

Nothing really, because we just don't have the time, especially with the holidays right around the corner.

Oh. Wait. Maybe we won't have to worry about that after all. Never mind.

In any event, here are some helpful tips to get you and yours ready for any disaster that may or may not be imminent.

1. Transfer all of your electronic calendar entries to a paper-based calendar. I know. Stone-age, right? But, trust me, the last thing you'll want to be in a post-apocolyptic world is late for an appointment.

2. Get your hands on a French press and an old-fashioned nut chopper. How else do you expect to grind and brew coffee beans without electricity? Armageddon or not, a world without java would indeed be hell on earth.

3. Hoard chocolate. When world markets crumble, currency will be worthless. Chocolate, however, will not only retain its value, but can be used to barter precious items such as batteries, matches and fuel.

4. Teach your kids how to play checkers and shuffle cards. When their electronic devices fail, you'll still want them to be able to entertain themselves but be sure to cut them some slack. Transitioning from flashy hand held devices and video games to board games, and learning how to handle a deck of cards, can be quite daunting.

5. Lastly, plan for alternate modes of communication. As difficult as it is to imagine a world without mobile phones, texting and online networking, it may be time to go retro. I'm talkin' ham radios. But, since I don't know the first thing about them, I'll recommend snail mail instead. Besides, don't forget the postman's motto: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." It captures just about anything a disaster can throw at us, except the absence of Twinkies.

Call Me Crazy

2012-11-30T15:18:00.000-06:00

Call me crazy, but I'm about to sign up for an 8k run taking place next April and I haven't stuck to a regular workout routine since shuffling through my first 5k a year ago.

I know what you're thinking. "Here we go again," right?

Go ahead, roll your eyes. I wouldn't blame you.

I really don't know what came over me. All I know is that between nagging insomnia and a waistline that expands if I even look in the general direction of a pastry, I had to do something. After reading through my old blog posts chronicling my experience going from the couch to a 5k, I scrambled to find a new goal towards which I could shuffle.

To that end, I jumped in at week 4 of the program that got me ready for last year's Turkey Trot. That means in 5 weeks, I'll be able to run 3 miles. Without stopping. From there, I plan on switching over to a 10k training plan my former varsity cross-country running son drew up for me. That's 13 weeks' worth of training and the race is in 18 weeks.

It's all good. Really.

Wanna join me?

This time, I'm hoping to drag my two youngest sons along for the ride - one, fresh off his high school cross-country season and the other, my former mini coach (aka, Prefon-James). By April, I'm hoping I can keep up with them. Otherwise, they'll be dragging me.

Until next time...

Move Over Martha

2012-11-25T09:03:00.000-06:00

I have long held that the arch nemesis to plate spinners everywhere is Martha Stewart. Simmering in her crafty household perfection, the ridiculously high standard she sets is one to which those of us laboring in the trenches don't even bother to aspire.

But when it comes to Thanksgiving, there is another foe of sorts - an artist who emblazoned his idea of wholesome Americana on the the covers of the Saturday Evening Post for years. Thats right. Norman Rockwell. For many generations, he set the bar for us all.

I never realized until this year, though, that I had been falling into his trap. Heaping more pressure on myself than spoonfuls of stuffing on my plate, food was always the focus and the table had to be perfection. It just had to be.

This year, though, something odd and wonderful happened. My focus shifted from food to, of all things, family.

It all started when I was stepping out of the shower with just minutes to spare before the guests were due to arrive.

Someone tapped on the door.

"Hang on a minute!" I shouted.

I wrapped my hair in a towel and shimmied into my jeans and a sport bra (because, really, who wants to be bothered with having to adjust bra straps when you are about to serve food to thirty people?).

I was vigorously towel drying my hair when I heard the second tap.

I knew if I surrendered the bathroom to this intruder, I'd never be ready in time.

"Just a second!" I called out.

But the tapper persisted. Fearing it was my youngest who had already tried the other bathrooms and was about to make more of a mess than I was willing to deal with, I flung open the door. Shirtless.

There, grinning from ear to ear, was my first born. The one who told me that he had to work on Thanksgiving and couldn't join us. The one who I had felt so very bad for as I pictured him alone and hungry in his dorm room on Thanksgiving day.

"Surprised?" he asked.

Uh...yeah!

I took a record thirty seconds to dry my hair, pull on a shirt and make it to the kitchen where I saw my father-in-law and his family arriving bearing two large foil pans filled with his famous rice and beans and chicken dish.

"Put these in the oven to keep warm," someone said. I was aghast. Real estate on the inside of my humble little appliance was at a premium. And the potatoes still needed mashing. I felt myself morphing, one holiday too early, into the Grinch.

I started delegating to the anyone who had the misfortune of getting in my way. By the time I finally took my seat beside my husband, I was ready to fling a turkey leg at anyone who made a sound.

Then my husband made a brief, but beautiful, toast and everyone dug in.

That's when Norman himself elbowed his way into my subconscious. I looked out over the crowd. Every one was chatting and laughing, eating and drinking.

And quite unexpectedly, I felt like the Grinch at the end of the show when his tiny, shriveled heart begins to grow and grow and GROW.

One glance out at my family, my big extended family, and I remembered just how blessed I am.

Norman would've been proud...

Ode to Thanksgiving

2012-11-20T10:22:00.000-06:00

Presenting.... my second annual Ode to Thanksgiving. This year, it's set to the tune of "Leaving on a Jet Plane" (with my humblest apologies to the late, great John Denver). Enjoy!

Well the turkey's bought, it's thawing now.
It looked much smaller at the store.
I need to fill my oven with this bird.
But the pies need baking, the stuffing too.
The rolls can wait, but what to do?
Already I'm so worried I could cry.

(photo credit www.easypeasyfoods.com)

"So grill it and bake the rest,"
That's what my dear spouse just said.
"Cook it on a bed of hot charcoal."
'Cause I'm anxious about Thanksgiving
Don't know why I offered to host again.
I tell you now, this is the last time.

There's no way we're grilling, it just won't fit.

With no time to dig a barbecue pit,

I tell my spouse, "Go get some more charcoal.

Everyone will love it," I reassure.

"Every hour you'll check the temperature.

When it's done, I'll have mine with a roll."

"So grill it and bake the rest,"

That's what my dear spouse just said.

"Cook it on a bed of hot charcoal."

'Cause I'm wonderin' about Thanksgiving.

Don't know why I offered to host again.

I tell you now, this might be OK.

But the grill is just a little Weber

Not a big gas-fueled number.

The vents are clogged and we're out of mesquite chips.

"It doesn't matter," my hubby reasoned.

"The meat will cook, the outside's seasoned.

Don't worry now. Just enjoy the day."

"So grill it and bake the rest,"

That's what my dear spouse just said.

"Cook it on a bed of hot charcoal."

'Cause I'm excited about Thanksgiving

Don't know why I offered to host again.

But in hindsight, not a bad idea.

'Cause I'm really loving Thanksgiving

So glad I offered to host again.

I tell you now, I've never felt so blest!

Thanksgiving is Coming - Like it or Not

2012-11-12T10:06:00.000-06:00

This time of year seems to be all about countdowns. A coping device, they help us brace ourselves for the inevitable. And they're all over the news.

There are countdowns to the dreaded fiscal cliff, Black Friday (now, disturbingly, elbowing its way into Thanksgiving Thursday), the end of the world (per that murky and oft-misinterpreted Mayan calendar) and, if that doesn't happen, Christmas and New Year's.

Like I need more pressure in my life.

Taking matters into my own hands, I create lists. I love lists. They bring order to my life and help me retain an air of organization about me when all others are losing theirs.

In fact, I just sent out a Thanksgiving Prep list to my sisters. While I am hosting the affair, we always divvy up the menu. Now that that's done, I can prepare my shopping list. How do I know how much to get? I check my guest list.

I think you get the picture.

Lists are empowering. They make even the most daunting task seem do-able by breaking it down line item by line item.

So ignore all those countdowns meant to fill us with dread and enjoy my own Thanksgiving tale instead.

Write a Letter, Save the Post Office

2012-10-17T13:38:00.004-05:00

As CNN Money reporter Jennifer Liberto reports in her article Postal Service barred from borrowing more*, the United States Postal Service has found itself wedged between a cancelled stamp and a hard place.

OMG

I, for one, am not about to sit idly by and let cryptic electronic transmissions replace and eventually obliterate a cherished, albeit nostalgic, mode of communication from our not-too-distant past: hand-written letters.

THX

When our older boys were still in middle school, we taught them the art of writing well thought out thank you cards to their teachers at the end of each school year. In part, this was a way to show off their newly-mastered cursive writing skills, but it served a larger purpose - to let their teachers know that their efforts were appreciated, their lessons didn't fall on deaf ears and that they would be remembered as having made a positive impact on their lives. If they could not be sincere, a note was not sent.

(Photo credit - Austrian Postal Service)

Given the positive responses they got back, my boys quickly learned the benefit of taking the time to pen a deliberately thoughtful note. This mode of communication has the power to touch people in ways that a quickly typed email or text just can't.

When my older sister headed off to college, I wrote to her frequently, sending letters and cards that she has kept to this very day. I can't say the same for emails I may have sent to her back in the late nineties when electronic communication began elbowing its way into our lives, amazing us with its speed and accessibility.

By the time my son headed off to college, I was still getting complements from friends on the touching thank you notes they received from him for his graduation gifts. With pen pals around the world, I knew my boy had been bitten hard by the romantic notion that nothing is finer than opening a mailbox and finding a hand-written letter from a friend or loved one. As such, I made a vow to write him. Often.

LMAO

Between work, family and, oh, life, I quickly forgot all about my vow. And then there was this new smart phone that my son had picked out for my birthday. He showed me how to use it just days before he left.

My Texting Thumbs

My firsts attempts at texting were not pretty. Especially if I didn't have my reading glasses with me. And my thumbs suddenly felt like they were as big as maracas.

Case in point, at the end of a school day, when one of my high schoolers texts, "Pick me up?", my reply more often than not reads, "ob.jy day" instead of "on my way".

Would a hand-written, post office-delivered missive help in this case? Possibly, as would smoke signals.

By the time it takes me to use my thumbs/maracas to correctly type my response, my son can text me a three-paragraph synopsis of his day.

It wasn't until my college boy ever-so-tactfully asked me to look over a term paper he had written that I remembered my vow to send him frequent hand-written letters. The topic of his paper? Modern correspondence and the lost art of letter writing. He used the beautiful graphic from the Austrian Postal Service's recent campaign (above) to illustrate his point.

Shamed, I put pen to paper - not to write out a grocery list, but to actually write him a letter. Half way through the first sentence, though, I was digging in my junk drawer for a bottle of white-out I had noticed in there a few years back, hoping it wasn't completely dried out. Still, I muddled through and cranked out a page and a half of relevant if not timely news. I also popped in wallet sized photos of his brothers' new class pictures.

As expected, he was thrilled to see the flat little gift in his mailbox and I promised to send more. All for the low, low, low, low price of a postage stamp.

So, what do you say? Ready to help the United States Postal Service return to solvency?

Good! Now, log off and go write a letter!

TTFN

(*money.cnn.com, October 17, 2012)

Plundering the Spoils of a Day Off

2012-10-08T09:40:00.003-05:00

That Shepherd's Pie I made last week? Gone. In one sitting.

After I file that recipe under "K" for Keeper, I'm not digging out another. Not today. It's my day off. The last thing I want to do is slave in the kitchen. I have other places to slave - in the yard, in the laundry room and, yes, at my laptop.

And, like Columbus, who I have to thank for my kids being underfoot today, I did have my sights set on discovering a new world - Bloomington, Indiana. My first mate (a.k.a., son #3) and I were going to explore the well-charted campus of Indiana University.

According to Mapquest, it would take us four and a half hours to get there. The thought of driving for nine hours through the flat Midwestern landscape had me shuffling through my CDs and instructing my son to bring along some homework. Lots of homework. I also planned to pack provisions - water, fruit and protein bars for my son and coffee for me. Lots of coffee.

Yet, as our launch date approached, my first mate had second thoughts. Seems he's already made up his mind that, like his oldest brother, he's leaning towards an urban environment for his collegiate experience. And, like his other older brother, he's decided to only target schools that are known for his area of interest.

Well, OK then! That would've been good to know before I sacrificed a vacation day, but I'll make sure it won't go to waste. Between the fallen leaves, dirty clothes and unwritten content, I'll try to squeeze in some down time. Lots of down time.

Shepherding in Fall

2012-10-03T15:01:00.004-05:00

On this cold, gray, drizzly day, I can't help but think of my two high school boys who have cross-country practice after school. As I picture them trotting along a nearby forest preserve trail in just t-shirts and shorts, damp with sweat and mist, and possibly a leaf or two stuck in their hair, one thought keeps crossing my mind.

I'm so glad it's them and not me.

Mean? Perhaps. But trust me, if our roles were reversed, I am quite confident that they would not be planning on warming me from the inside out with a yummy casserole for dinner once I got home.

I have not tried this recipe before. What intrigued me was the way it takes one of my boys' favorite dishes - Sheperd's Pie - and morphs it into a nutrient-packed quasi dessert of a meal.

There's just one problem. Do I serve it with a side of whipped cream or dinner rolls?

No matter. One look out the window tells me a couple of dry towels will do...

Fall Sheperd's Pie (recipe from TheFoodInMyBeard and found on Tablespoon)

Prep Time: 30 minutes
Servings: 8

Ingredients:

Photo credit: TheFoodInMyBeard (www.tablespoon.com)

2 lbs ground turkey
3 celery ribs, diced
1 small onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 tbls butter
2 tbls flour
1 box chicken stock
1 bag frozen corn
1 bag dried cranberries
4 sweet potatoes
1 russet potato
1 pinch cinnamon
1 pinch allspice
1 cup milk
1/2 stick butter

Directions:

Scrub potatoes and bake in 350 oven until tender (for me, this took about an hour and a half, because I neglected to poke them with a fork).
Brown the turkey and remove from pan. Cook the celery, onions and carrots.
Add the butter, then once melted, whisk in the flour. Let this cook for a few minutes, stirring constantly.
Add the meat back into the pan and add the stock. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for about 10 minutes.
When the potatoes are ready, mash them in a bowl with a half a stick of butter and milk. Mix in the cinnamon and allspice.
Add the turkey mixture to the bottom of a casserole dish.
Mix together the corn and cranberries, then add them on top of the turkey.
Add the mashed potatoes to the top and bake at 350 for about 30 minutes or until the top starts to brown. Allow it to sit for 10 minutes before serving.

I know there are a lot of "abouts" in this recipe, but such is the nature of Sheperd's Pie. And that's why it's our favorite.

Enjoy!

A Double Date Dare

2012-09-21T13:53:00.003-05:00

Exactly twenty-nine years ago, I was on a double date with a college pal. While neither my friend or I were romantically interested in our dates, they did prove useful, fetching drinks for us at the overly crowded bar. On their second trip to replenish our cocktails, a stranger slipped into my date's chair and introduced himself.

I had seen this guy before. He lived down the hall from our dates in the same co-ed dorm I called "home" my senior year and had a curious way of appearing when and where I least suspected him - at the mailbox as I was rushing to my room after class, in the residence hall laundry room when I was without make-up and wearing shabby sweats, and in the cafeteria as soon as I rolled out of bed just to get some coffee and cram before my weekly grammar quiz.

I hadn't paid much attention to him. After all, he wasn't my type - not that I had any idea what my type was back then.

This latest intrusion, though, was a wonderful surprise. Seems I had grown accustomed to his smiling face and, in the midst of an otherwise terribly dull date, he was a very welcomed distraction.

And he was smart. Given the crowd and the distance between our table and the bar, he knew we only had a few moments to chat. To the best of my recollection, here is how the conversation went:

Me: What are you doing here?

Him: I'm here with some friends. What are you doing here? And with Terry (my date)?

Me: Why do you care?

Him: It's just that if you're going to go on a date, you could've picked somebody a little more exciting. Somebody that can make you laugh.

Me: Oh, and I suppose that's you?

Him: Heh, I wouldn't date you, even if you dared me.

Me: OK, I dare you to date me. Now will you leave us alone?

Him: Great. I'll pick you up Sunday night at five.

I had fallen right into his trap...

...and, twenty-nine years later, I'm so very glad I did.

Fall, Flannel and a Fashion Faux Pas

2012-09-17T09:29:00.000-05:00

With cooler-than-normal temps, rain and gusty winds in the forecast, I think it's safe to say that Fall has arrived.

The signs are everywhere.

Here in the midwest, the leaves are just starting to change hue, going from green to gold and crimson...

...and Halloween candy is on full display at the grocery store.

Surrendering to the urge to make stews and cobbler, I've even dusted off my crock pot.

But here's a question for you: Is it time for flannel sheets?

Given that the sets in my linen closet are adorned with things like snowflakes, reindeers, holly and sleds, I'm wondering if it's too early.

Maybe I'm over thinking this.

My boys are already pulling out their flannel shirts and wearing them over their t-shirts (God forbid they wear an actual jacket when the temps dip below 50 degrees).

An Open Letter to My Future Daughter-in-Laws

2012-09-05T22:55:00.002-05:00

Dear Future Daughter-in-Laws,

I know I haven't met you yet - or maybe I have and I scared you away when I came at you waving a tape measure. If that was the case, please - hear me out.

As the mother of all boys, I have no one to whom I can endow my wedding dress. My mother's before me, it's a lovely ball gown embellished with Chantilly lace and yards of tulle, complete with a matching bolero jacket and pill box hat. It would be a shame to let it go to waste (insert heavy, prolonged sigh here).

But, I digress.

As I was preparing my youngest son's breakfast the other day - a kitschy dish we like to call "Egg-in-Bread" - and I arranged it on his plate just so, it occurred to me that you may someday curse the ground I walk on, accusing me of not only pampering your future husband but, worse, creating a needy man who demands that his spouse match, or even exceed, his mom's level of doting.

For shame.

I handed my youngest his food and he thanked me. But when he pushed the envelop and asked for some milk, I nearly snarled, "Get it yourself."

Then I set out his clothes for him (after I made his bed, of course).

Far be it from me to raise a high maintenance hubby. However, since he is my youngest, I know the damage has already been done with my older four. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

I didn't intentionally set out to create narcisitic oafs, incapable of independent living. I blame working mother guilt.

I'll admit it. I put my career first. After dumping them in daycare, I would rush to my job as if the Earth itself would stop spinning on its axis if I was but a minute late.

By the time I'd pick them up at the end of a long day, I invariably felt compelled to demonstrate my affection by doing irrational things like shoving my beloved Eric Clapton cassette tapes into the glove compartment so we could instead sing along with the likes of Raffi, Arial and Belle. I mean, really, who wants their little cherub humming "I Shot the Sheriff" during circle time?

Then, exhausted to the point of insanity, I didn't think twice about putting my boys' needs before my own - even if it meant storing extra clothes for them in their diaper bag while I rushed to work with oatmeal stained shoulders, or cutting their meat for them so I could enjoy my own meal in peace (I swear I won't do this at your wedding reception).

As they got older, I kept their schedules so jam packed with scouts, sports and school, that again, I felt too guilty to make them do chores. I know, I know - bad move. Is it any wonder they avoid eye contact with me as I read off my to-do list on Saturday mornings?

Please believe me when I tell you, I did it all out of love. Perhaps you'll understand better once you have children of your own.

I. Can't. Wait.

Well, anyway. Sorry to be so long-winded. I'm sure I'll be thrilled to finally meet you when the time comes!

Hugs,

Your Future-Mother-in-Law

P.S. It's a size 8. Just sayin'...

The Eternal Optimism of the Asperger Mind

2012-08-27T13:18:00.001-05:00

I have written about my autistic son before. Despite grappling with the challenges brought on by Asperger's Syndrome, he remains a bottomless pool of good cheer.

Impressed as I am by his incredible kindness, courage and fortitude, I am heartened by the way in which his presence tends to bring out the best in those around him. It re-ignites my faith in all things good and right in this troubled world, not like a match - more like a blow torch.

A week after graduating from middle school, he joined his older brother and started training with the high school boys' cross-country team. A week after that, he had to go to practice on his own while his brother went off to scout camp and a mission trip.

The thought of Christopher riding his bike alone, to and fro, conjured every negative scenario imaginable - a forgotten water bottle, a stolen bike, stranger danger, taunting, getting lost on a remote trail. Leave it to me to think the worst and hope for the best. It's a wonder I ever let him leave the house.

The team, a great bunch of young men led by an amazing coach, graciously accepted him into their protective fold. By the time his brother resumed the practice schedule, Christopher was just one of the guys and the routine was just that. Routine.

On a couple of balmy Sunday nights, he tagged along to a few sessions with our church's youth group and was happy to see some of his teammates there. My husband and I stepped back and watched as his social network began to take shape.

Yet, as the new school year approached, panic began to bubble to the surface.

What were we thinking, telling the high school he wouldn't need an aid? I must've been out of my mind to push for regular, not self-contained, classes.

Call it denial, but I made a conscious decision to not worry about his future as a high school student. While that plan worked well during the day, my subconscious had other plans, making sure I was wide awake every night at 3am so I could toss and turn until my alarm went off two hours later.

When his schedule arrived in the mail, I wondered if sending him to a private school was a viable option. However, since I didn't want to deplete his college fund, I was left with no choice. I considered, if only for a fleeting moment, the impossible. Home schooling.

Thankfully, the moment passed.

The next thing I knew, we were dropping him off at his Freshman orientation - a two-hour session in which the new students would be welcomed by the administrators. They'd also get to "walk their schedules" so they could practice the route they'd have to take to get through their school day.

Considering that I still get lost on that sprawling campus - even after attending seven years' worth of curriculum nights, I was certain that I'd be picking up a frustrated, agitated child.

I decided to practice my mantra while I waited in my idling car.

Everything's going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine.

I spotted him as he approached, twirling the curl on his forehead, frowning. Uh-oh, I thought. Here we go.

He plopped in the front seat and I started to pull away from the curb.

I was afraid to ask, but did anyway. "How'd it go?"

He started, as if I interrupted a deep thought. "Oh. Good." Then without providing any further detail, he continued, "Say, do you think I could go to the dance tonight?"

Dance?

"The school is having a welcome dance for Freshman only. First of its kind."

Wrestling my over-developed protective instinct to the mat, I smiled and said, "Sure. Absolutely."

As we drove home, I tried to imagine him fitting in. He's a tall, gangly boy with acne and braces who feels awkward around kids he doesn't know. Especially girls.

Then it hit me. He'll blend. For once in his life, he'll be just like everybody else.

On the first day of school, he bounded off with his brother. Looking like happy hermit crab carrying an overstuffed backpack, he had his schedule in one pocket and a map of the school in the other. And I knew, deep down, that everything was going to be just fine.

And Then There Were Five

2012-08-16T13:01:00.000-05:00

My household is shrinking. Once bursting with seven of us, we're now down to five. While I'm loving the new-found elbow room, ever-present car keys, and slightly lower grocery bills, I do miss my two college-bound boys.

Relatively close by, our oldest opted to stay at his university for the summer, taking classes and working. This week, we moved our second son into his dorm on a campus far, far away.

According to the welcome sign sticking up out of the shriveled up corn stalks on the side of the highway, Iowa is the "The Field of Opportunity".

As the parent of a college student, I must say I definitely prefer that sensible slogan over "The Field of Dreams" (one of my favorite movies, but still, it's a little foolhearty).

Yet, in hindsight, I'm thinking the Shoeless Joe Jackson character might have been right after all.

Iowa is teeming with angels.

When we arrived at our son's residence hall, we were greeted by cheerful students directing us every step of the way. We had him moved in and unpacked within the course of an hour. After grabbing a quick bite to eat, we made our way to a welcome session hosted by the head of the "On Iowa" program who started her speech by stating the obvious - people in Iowa are some of the nicest folks on the planet. Hokey, yes, but we had no reason to think otherwise.

After learning more about the fun, informative sessions they had planned for all of the early arrivals, they gave us parents fifteen minutes to say our good-byes.

Trying to keep a positive spin on his day, I did my best to remain stoic. As I stood next to my freshman, I didn't sense a hint of anxiety. I gave him a big hug, kissed him on the cheek and moved out of the way so my husband could follow suit.

A stay-at-home dad since my son was three, my poor hubbie just couldn't let go. My dear son, sensitive to the emotion-heavy moment, gripped him back.

That's when I lost it.

Thoughts started racing through my head. What do you mean we won't see you until Thanksgiving? What happens if you get sick? What will I do if my computer malfunctions?

At the fifteen minute mark, we pulled away and released him from our clutches. Smiling, he bounded for his group and never looked back. Clearly, this was pay back for that first time we blithely dropped him off at daycare all those many years ago.

After filling up our tank with gas that was priced at a level we haven't seen since 1996, we hit the highway and were a tad alarmed to see our battery light flash on. Granted, our SUV is eight years old, but we just had it serviced for our road trip to Orlando last month. We trudged on, sure that there was nothing to worry about.

About an hour later, everything began shutting down. We pulled onto the shoulder and, while my husband called AAA, I hopped out to chat with Angel #1 who was stepping out of his Iowa State patrol car. After we informed him that a tow truck was on its way, he suggested a couple of repair places nearby and promised to check on us in an hour just to be sure we were taken care of.

Thirty minutes later, Angel #2 pulled in front of us. As he hoisted our idled vehicle onto his tow truck, he listened to the list of establishments Angel #1 gave us, then pointed out that since it was after 5pm, they were all closed.

Still three hours from home, we thought of our three younger sons alone at home and started to panic. Our AAA membership would cover the cost of a hotel room, but Angel #2 had a better idea.

"Let me call a buddy of mine. He owns a shop in Davenport. I'll bet anything, all you need is a new alternator."

With no other choice, we agreed.

Forty-five minutes later, we were introduced to Angel #3 who, after dropping his sons off at football practice, picked up a new alternator, met us at his shop, opened it up, and pulled our car in.

Two hours and all of the free soda from his vending machine that we wanted later, he closed the hood and handed us his business card so we could call him in case we had any more problems. It came as no surprise that his logo is a wrench with wings on it (which I promise to scan once my printer is repaired).

By the time we arrived our uncomfortably roomy home, it was well after midnight, and I had completely reversed my stance on Iowa's state logo - "Field of Dreams" is so much more appropriate...

Spirited Away: A Review of "Stay Tuned: Conversations with Dad from the Other Side"

2012-08-09T14:27:00.003-05:00

As much as I love curling up with a good book, I rarely make the time for it. That being said, for me to not only read a book cover to cover, but give it a resounding endorsement is actually saying quite a lot.

A fan of author Jenniffer Weigel's Chicago Tribune column, I picked up a copy of her book Stay Tuned: Conversations with Dad from the Other Side (Hampton Roads, 2007) out of curiosity more than anything.

And I am so glad I did.

This sincere, witty and heart-warming account of the spiritual journey on which she embarked before the passing of her father, beloved Chicago sportscaster Tim Weigel, is truly compelling and inspirational.

After bucking her Dad's advice to go into teaching, she follows him into the world of broadcasting, much to his chagrin. Eager for some non-judgemental career guidance, Jenniffer accepts a pal's invitation to visit a psychic.

Approaching the experience with the curiosity of an investigative reporter, she holds her cards close to her chest. When the psychic nails a few key details about her life, she's intrigued, but not yet convinced. Instead, she asks her Dad to join her for a follow-up visit in the hopes of connecting with her deceased paternal grandmother.

What ensues not only intrigues the self-described "Emmy award-winning skeptic", it opens a up new medium (pun intended) for discerning her potential and identifying her dream job while enhancing her relationship with her Dad.

Like Jenniffer, my career choice was heavily influenced by my father. While I yearned to scratch out a living as a writer, he insisted that I major in business so I could earn a decent living and someday follow his footsteps into corporate infamy. Striking a compromise, I chose the field of technical writing and generated software user manuals instead of novels.

After too many years of sitting in claustrophobic cubicles, I too found myself looking for direction and spiritual fulfillment. During my quest, I stumbled upon a few of the same experts mentioned in this book, but the only psychic I ever visited was a suburban housewife who, for forty dollars, told me I would have two boys (which I did, plus 3 more) and that I had issues with my Dad (really, who doesn't on some level?). Nonetheless, I was riveted by Jenniffer's encounters with the mediums she interviewed.

I especially liked the way she would practice changing her attitude from want to gratitude (ala author Neale Donald Walsch), nabbing perfect parking spaces and, later, plum jobs by stating, "Thank you in advance for the job that already makes me happy" and believing every word.

She also recounts interviews with renowned authors who help her gather the courage needed to pursue her dream. These particular passages, in which James Van Praagh describes exactly what happens when we die and Carolyn Myss shares her belief that we each must follow through with our sacred contracts, left me feeling comforted and validated.

Is it any wonder I couldn't put this book down?

As I continue to carve a path that will transport me from technical writing to a syndicated column and bestseller list, I find myself drawing the same conclusion as Ms. Weigel - true happiness and fulfillment can only be found within. Easier said than done, I know, but here's hoping practice makes perfect.

Thank you in advance for the job that already makes me happy...

Chill Out with Easy Frozen Treats

2012-07-20T16:33:00.001-05:00

One of the hottest summers on record? Personally, I blame the ever-controversial global warming.

While there may not be much we can do about the sizzling temps, we do have control over how we choose to cool off. Frozen treats can go a long way towards doing just that.

Bathing suit getting a little tight? Go ahead and blame these decadent desserts:

Fruit Supreme

2 packages Nabisco Vanilla wafers

½ cup butter

1 ½ cup powdered sugar

2 eggs, separated

2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 pint whipping cream

1 lb. fresh strawberries, blueberries or peaches (may substitute 2 ½ cups canned peaches, drained)

Cream butter. Add sugar gradually. Beat well. Add beaten egg yolks. In a separate bowl, whip the egg whites and vanilla until stiff. Fold into the sugar and egg yolks. Beat until smooth.

Crush one package of vanilla wafers. Press crumbs to form a layer on the bottom of a 9”x13”glass baking dish. Next, spread the custard over the crumbs, then a layer of sliced fruit. Spread whipped cream over fruit. Roll other package of vanilla wafers into fine crumbs and sprinkle over whipped cream. Freeze overnight and let soften slightly before serving.

Fluffy Strawberry Torte

Crust:

1 cup flour

¼ cup brown sugar

½ cup chopped walnuts

½ cup butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix ingredients and spread 2/3 of mixture in bottom of 9” x 13” glass pan. Do NOT pat down firmly. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown, stirring occasionally with a fork. When done, set aside to cool while making filling.

Filling:

2 egg whites

1 cup sugar (or less, depending on taste)

2 cups thinly sliced washed and hulled strawberries

1 cup whipping cream

1 tsp. vanilla extract

Beat egg whites until stiff, adding sugar gradually. In a separate bowl, combine whipping cream and vanilla extract, then fold into egg mixture. Spread strawberries over crust. Spoon egg and cream mixture over the fruit. Top with remaining crust crumbs. Freeze overnight and let soften slightly before serving.

Peanut Butter Dessert (also known as “The Next Best Thing to Robert Redford”)

Crust:

1 stick butter, melted

12 ounces Oreo cookies, crushed

In a large bowl, combine the butter and Oreos. Press mixture into a 9” x 13” pan.

Filling:

2/3 cup chunky peanut butter

8 oz. cream cheese, softened

1 cup milk

2 cups powdered sugar

16 oz. non-dairy whipped topping

1/3 cup chocolate syrup

In a large bowl, cream the peanut butter and cream cheese. Add the milk and powdered sugar. Mix. Fold in the non-dairy whipped topping. Pour the mixture over the crust. Drizzle chocolate syrup over the top. Freeze. Soften slightly before cutting into squares.

Our Last Trip to Disneyworld

2012-07-11T17:42:00.001-05:00

I just got back from one of those vacations from which you need another vacation just to recover.

With my oldest in college and one more headed out the door this August, we decided to seize the opportunity for one last family vacation. Where to go? The vote was unanimous - Disneyworld.

Not having been for six years, my husband and I figured it was a last hurrah for our older boys and a re-do for our youngest who was only four the last time we visited "the happiest place on Earth".

As much as I would've preferred flying over cramming the seven of us into our aging SUV, the airfare would've busted our vacation budget, forcing us to sleep under the stars for the duration.

Driving the same SUV down to Orlando six years earlier was a breeze. We popped the cargo carrier on top, buckled the car seat in the back-back and off we went with room to spare in the backseat for a cooler and portable TV.

Not so this time around. With knees tucked under our chins, we ended up rotating seats with each fill-up. To make matters worse, with four licensed drivers, we decided to drive straight through in one shot.

We left at 5pm and arrived at 4pm the next day (time change and bathroom breaks included). After unfolding ourselves, we checked into our resort. Due to the size of my brood, we stayed at one of the Fort Wilderness cabins. Cozy, clean, rustic and comfy, it had a fully-equipped kitchen which required two trips to the grocery store during our one-week stay to keep stocked. And, I had to make my own coffee.

Pardon my whining, but my definition of "vacation" does not include food prep, although I did make an exception when it came to making s'mores at an outdoor viewing of "The Goofy Movie".

Perhaps now would be a good time to point out that there have been only two times in my married life when I have regretted not being blessed with daughters. Namely, when my boys made their First Communions and later when they went to Prom. Both times, I was gipped out of a major dress-shopping experience, but nothing prepare me for being at Disney, surrounded by mini princesses.

Everywhere I turned, I saw tulle, tiaras, wands and sparkly bodices. While donning my Minnie Mouse head band brought me some small measure of comfort, a hug from my girl Minnie just about did the trick.

What I wouldn't give for a dose of her never-ending cheer! Is it the polka dotted dress? The white gloves? Maybe the over-sized yellow patten-leather pumps?

I hope not because polka dots aren't a good look for me, I have never worn white gloves, and while I don't recall ever owning yellow patten-leather pumps, I do recall having a yellow patten-leather purse - when I was six. And don't even get me started on the apron.

Ducking into a nearby gift shop, my empathetic boys did their best to compensate. Speaking of goofy...

By the fourth day, we were ready to cool off. While momentarily disappointed to learn that our park-hopper passes didn't include trips to Typhoon Lagoon or Blizzard Beach, we decided to ditch Disney for a bit and head to one of Mother Nature's water parks - the Atlantic Ocean. Body surfing at a sparsely-populated Cocoa Beach turned out to be a far better alternative to elbowing our way through a crowded aquatic adventure.

After five days of late nights and early wake-ups to get our fill of roller coasters, water rides and icky swampy-tasting drinking water, it was time to pile back into our dear old SUV and head north. Tired, in desperate need of clean clothes and a good night's sleep, we were all ready to get back to our regularly-scheduled lives.

Pulling into our driveway, I suggested to my husband that we wait until the morning to alert our neighbors, who had kindly watched over our house while we were gone, of our return. But, there was no need. As soon as we opened our car doors, the clink of empty Snapple bottles alerted all within earshot that we were home. We didn't care. We were just grateful that the car held up, no one killed each other and a wonderful time was had by all.

Tempted as I am to get weepy at the thought of this being our last true family vacation, I know there'll be more. Maybe not to the same place and definitely not in the same vehicle. We just had too much fun to not do it again...and isn't that what family vacations are for?

Only Six Months 'til Christmas!

2012-06-25T10:29:00.000-05:00

(Photo Credit: Chris Bannon)

Christmas is exactly six months away. With my outdoor thermometer expected to top 100 degrees in a few days, I can't think of a better way to cool down than by sharing my holiday prep to-do list.

In the spirit of all things yuletide-y, here are a few things you can start on now:

* Start dropping the "S" bomb when you spot your kids, or even your spouse, behaving badly. A simple "Santa's watching" can curb just about anything from sloppy table manners to poor car-borrowing etiquette (leaving my car on fumes, re-programming my radio station buttons and re-adjusting the driver's seat).

* Carry a small notebook to record any conversations that start with a whiny "I want..." or a wistful "I wish I had...". That way, you can get a jump on your Christmas shopping well in advance of the holiday rush.

* Avoid those stiff, carefully posed family holiday photos by vigilantly watching for impromtu group photo ops. While photos of the family plopped in the middle of a pile of just-raked leaves is popular, they are clearly staged. Savvy plate spinners, forever bent on killing two birds with one stone, are likely to take it a step further by capturing their kids in the actual act of completing chores. I myself plan on getting a shot of my family from an upstairs bedroom that looks down on our driveway while they're washing my car. Nothing says "ho, ho, ho" like a couple of drenched kids sporting bubble beards.

* Start drafting that dreaded Christmas card letter now. Again, in your handy-dandy little notebook, record your family's accomplishments. That way, you'll have plenty of time to embellish if need be. With a candy cane pen and little holiday spirit, even the most mundane year can be spun into one that will make you the envy of your friends and family. That weekend spent pumping out your basement after a sump pump failure can be described as finally getting around to that "dream" home improvement project. And that weekend spent at the in-laws? A weekend getaway in a foreign land...

* Finally, what better way to cool off on a hot summer day than by having a Christmas in July party? Invite your friends over to decorate your tree and hang your Christmas lights outside. Wacky fun, right? But clever plate spinners know better. After the last guest heads home, leave it all up and don't have anyone over again until December.

Now, if you have trouble staying focused in the balmy sunshine, just put on those jingle bell earrings, pop in your favorite holiday music CD and fill a bowl with some peppermint ice cream. You'll be ready for Christmas in no time flat.