The Early Riser

Bread, Aged and Perfected

2012-01-30T17:10:00.000-06:00

I have a bit of a history with stale bread - a lineage with a lot of love.

I first learned the benefits of aged bread from my Dad who would masterfully turn it from hard and tasteless, to the world's best turkey stuffing by letting it soak up the juices and flavors deep within the cavernous depths of a 25-pound bird.

Stale bread took on a new delectable dimension when we discovered Breadworks rustic sourdough boules and their ability to hold their own against a cointreau scented soak, making Sunday morning breakfasts the best French toast feasts ever.

In Eighth grade, stale bread reached epic literary heights when two of my best friends were caught, tried, and suspended Jean Val Jean style for stealing a loaf of it from the cafeteria for a mold-growing science project. It became their infamous bond - one that I wasn't cool enough to own - one that I honestly envy.

When I became your friendly neighborhood deli girl at La Charcuterie in high school, equipped with a firm understanding of the properties and potential of aged bread, I became a champion and savior of many neglected loaves that would have been tossed to the curb at the end of the deli's day. I would bring them home to my carb-enamoured family and we would prey on them.

More recently, bread was a staple and vital factor in the daily operations of the restaurant in Pittsburgh that I managed. The baker, an artisan genius, who had a knack for making my mornings fragrantly glorious, would create dozens of loaves of bread, rolls, brioche, and burger buns on a daily basis. Depending on our volume of diners and the hunger levels of the servers and runners who would sneak pieces here and there, there would either be a little or a lot left over. The remains were creatively turned into adventurous sweet and savory bread puddings by the pastry chef the following day.

Yesterday, after an uber-packed and exhausting weekend, I opened the refrigerator to consider what I could easily make for dinner given the refrigerator's contents. I found three half-eaten day to three day-old French baguettes in my selection set. I felt bad for them - like they needed some love - like they needed to be more than croutons. So I did some Panade, or bread casserole, research.

I had been through several of these recipes before. But yesterday, I stumbled upon the New York Times' version. I liked the addition of milk/cream and the layering that they used. So I tweaked it a bit, accounting for Peter's pork needs and my desire to use up other ingredients in the house, and came out with this. (Don't judge the appearance - the bread at the bottom, is incredible.)

In our opinion, it was the best Panade recipe yet, and added another great chapter to my stale bread story. It was fast, easy, fun to make, and allotted us a great 30-40 minute baking window to watch a little Downton Abbey.

Lo.

A Great Panade
2 cups, stale crusty bread, cut into 1 inch pieces. Baguettes work very well.
1/2 pound Italian Sausage (mild or spicy)
1 small butternut squash cut into 3/4 inch cubes
4 cloves garlic
Splash of olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 shallot, minced
1 cup cream
2 cups chicken stock
Salt and pepper
1/2 cup Cannellini beans
1 bundle spinach, chopped (about 1 cup)
Teaspoon each of parsley, basil and thyme, chopped
1 cup shredded Fontina or Parmesan cheese.

Brown the Italian Sausage, set aside.

Roast Butternut Squash and garlic, drizzled with a small amount of olive oil for 15 minutes at 400 degrees. Remove, set aside. Reduce heat to 375 degrees.

In a small sauce pan, melt butter and saute shallot for 2 minutes. Add stock, cream, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil and then let simmer for five minutes.

Line a 2-inch deep baking pan (perhaps the same one that you prepared the butternut squash in) with the bread. Layer sausage on top of the bread, then butternut squash and garlic on top of the sausage, then the beans, then the spinach. Pour all of the milky mixture over the casserole, and then top with cheese. Bake for 30-40 minutes.

Getting Ready

2012-01-29T13:19:00.000-06:00

We're about five months into our marital equation, and the question has started coming. Quite frequently, in fact.
'So, are you thinking about kids? Any addition to come?'

The answer has been a resounding, 'Absolutely.'

But recently, after one particular query and after one particular response, my enthusiastic yes, became a little more thoughtful. This week, the rotating door at Zano Salon in Naperville once again swung its way around; out went my favorite eye brow waxer, and in came a new one. And as I've always done, perhaps due to the compromising position or the inevitable fear of the combination of dried wax and hair being ripped off my forehead, I started spewing my life story. The new girl learned about Peter, about how we met, moved out to Naperville, landed jobs in a down economy, got engaged, and celebrated our nuptials, and about my addiction to documenting and publicizing life's lessons on this blog.

Right before she was about to rip off the vagrant hairs of my left eye brow she said, 'So you obviously aren't thinking about kids anytime soon.'
Obviously not thinking about kids? Why would she think that?

'Actually, we are. Ouch.'

'Really? Oh wow.'

'Well, I'm about to be thirty, and I want a big family, so basically, I need to get the show on the road. OUCH.'

'30? Really? I thought you were my age.'

'How old is that?'

'23.'

Given my increasingly present old fart fears I was flattered, but it got me thinking about age and age-related priorities. Yes, I'm just about 30. But I honestly don't feel like it. And my maternal clock only recently starting ticking because everyone else seemed to think it should be on. I mean, my parents only took away my magical Gold Visa card about five years ago. And Peter, my first boyfriend ever, only came around about four years ago. It was just two and a half a years ago that I finally got the kind of job I had always wanted. And like I said, it's only been about five months since I got married. So really, my level of maturity hasn't aged past 25. Perhaps the technician at Zano had tapped into something a little deeper - physically, the clock might be ticking, but I still have some pre-children fun to get out of my system.

The past 48 hours confirmed it. On Friday, we went into the city - to see friends, make some investments, and take a look at what living downtown would be like. Although children are on our minds, I would call the present a child prep phase - a phase defined by maximizing the experiences we have with each other, about living it up, and about making decisions that will set our future family up for, dare I say, the best life ever.

We made steps toward finding the optimal place to live - whether its in Aqua or Bucktown or a great Loft in the West Loop, Peter and I are very close to making the leap over the Eisenhower, downtown this spring.

We asserted that there always needs to be a little Quinlan in our lives, along with hipsters, trendy dining scenes, and amazing muddled cocktails, oysters, and bone marrow spread on toast.

We invested in the ultimate Father-Son summer outing. After about a decade on the waiting list, Peter is now a proud season ticket holder.

Back in Naperville last night, we practiced, with the help of good friends who don't mind driving all the way out here for pork chops and home brew, for when our table will always be full.

We brought Roscoe over, and practiced being responsible care-takers.

And we added to the store, which will come in handy on rainy rug rat ridden days when aged beer is going to taste better than ever.

And this afternoon, we're off to see a child-friendly movie, Hugo.

Lo.

A Winter Pairing

2012-01-25T07:07:00.000-06:00

Last week, winter finally came to Naperville. We had been experiencing global warming's version of the season throughout December and even into January, but finally, just as the 'we all need a snow day from work,' mentality set it, it snowed. And snowed. Over the past ten days or so, we've had a little bit more than a foot of the white stuff, and Naperville has officially turned into a winter wonderland. The sledders and skaters have returned to their frozen playgrounds. My running routes have become a little more challenging. The bundling up has reached the three and four layer mark. And finally, FINALLY, the geese that I so love to hate, have started to fly South.

Besides the snow, ice and lengthy commutes, there are other signs of winter being in full effect. Peter's dopplebock - the one that we brewed back in the early fall - finished its final fermentation, was carbonated, and then tapped. It's a rich, dark beer, with an almost Scotch-like after taste. And it's amazing - my favorite I think - the perfect antidote for the frigid temperatures.

The food being produced in our retro kitchen has gone from holiday comfy to completely insulating. Seemingly, I'm in the mood to make and eat something that doesn't just stick to your ribs, but to your hips and thighs every evening.

And the silence and solitude that tends to settle over the world during a snow storm or during the coldest, dreariest days of winter has arrived. It's the time of year when everyone, including us, has set up camp in their living room, saying, 'I'll see you in the Spring.'

Throughout these winter months it's helpful to have friends and family around to combat the quiet. B.P. (before Peter), when I lived alone in a small South Side apartment and the winters seemed particularly lonely, I would often walk down the street to my sister's apartment to watch a movie with her, or cross the Birmingham Bridge to have dinner with my parents, or snuggle up next to the fire at Soba, equipped with a French Martini and my best friends to fend off the cold. The buddy system helped, but there were still nights when the winter seemed particularly depressing.

This year I have a roommate again. And more than that, I have family, a best friend, and a bartender in house. And I feel like I'm part of a perfect winter pairing. It took a while to find, and it took some failed attempts. But in the end, just as the Dopplebock made it through several mismatches and finally found the perfect pairing in a plate of Moules et Frites last night, I found mine in Peter. Et il sera merveilleux et chaleur.

Lo.

La Recette.
Moules
1 1/2 pounds mussels
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large shallot minced
3 cloves garlic minced
1/2 cup shaved fennel
Sprig of thyme
2 1/2 cups dry white wine
Salt, pepper

In large soup pot, melt butter with olive oil. Add shallot, garlic and fennel and saute for three minutes. Add white wine, lemon juice and thyme. Bring to a boil and cook for 5-7 minutes until liquid is slightly reduced. Add mussels and steam for 3-5 minutes or until the shells open. Discard any mussels whose shells have not opened. Serve with crusty bread.

Et Frites
2 Russet Potatoes
Oil
Salt

Heat three to four inches of oil in Dutch Oven. Slice potatoes into french fry shaped slices. Working in batches, fry for 7-10 minutes or until golden brown in oil. Set on paper towel to drain. Salt. Serve immediately.

Family Extension

2012-01-22T13:55:00.000-06:00

When you get married, you say, 'yes' to a lot of things - to love and honor, to life through rich and poor, to his stuff, his hobbies, his dietary restrictions, and his televiewing preferences. You also say, 'yes' to the extension of him - his family.

When I was growing up, my girlfriends and I created lists to qualify our ideal husbands. During sleepovers we would set aside critical brainstorming time to compile the most attuned list of descriptors for our dream men. Among credentials such as 'hot,' 'well-dressed,' 'funny,' 'good dancer,' and 'skier' (not snowboarder), we each listed 'comes from a good family.' It was the one credential we all had in common. We each came from happy, loving families, and wanted our future spouses to possess similar lineages I suppose.

While good people are made from all kinds of families and 'good' can take on just about any meaning to anyone, when I first met Peter, on the first day of MBA school, as our conversation naturally turned to our families, I caught myself mentally checking off that qualifier, grinning from ear to ear, thinking I'm probably giving everything away, but I don't care cause I like him, because I liked what I heard about his family. That his mother and grandmother helped him find his apartment on campus, how his brother and grandfather had gone to Notre Dame as well, and how he had a cousin who was in my class at school - Bill.

The more I got to know Peter, the more I realized that he didn't just come from a good family, he came from a great one. A family that complements and enhances me and my family. A family that knows laughter, hugs, thoughtful gifts, good food, and how to live life to the fullest, just like mine. A family that is so good, that I let the 'good dancer' credential slide a bit.

This weekend I got to hang out with the extended family. Everyone was in town to mourn the death and celebrate the life of Aunt Winona. Moms and dads, grandparents and great grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins, those once and those twice removed, traveled great distances through a blustery winter storm to be together. And each one that I talked to seemed better, more fun, more of an original than the next.

At the end of the funeral Mass, Peter's cousin Kathleen, delivered some beautiful remarks about Winona - wonderful memories about her life and the impact she had in the community and on her family. She concluded with a very powerful statement (and I'm probably going to butcher it, so I apologize.) She said, "Winona was a lot of things to us. But most of all, she was a woman who let and encouraged each of us to be ourselves - to be originals. Because that was exactly who she always was - herself."

When I heard that, it helped me pinpoint just what 'good family' meant for me. It's a family that celebrates you for you. Who says being yourself is the best you can be. I'm lucky to have been born into a family like that. And I'm even luckier to have gained another one who loves me just as I am. A family filled with one of a kind characters. And among them, the original who complements my original - Peter.

The other night, as Peter was looking through some of his snips and clips from years past, he found several hand-made birthday, graduation, and Christmas cards from Aunt Winona. Creative, colorful, thoughtful cards, that surely made Peter's day when he opened them.

Although, I only got to meet Winona a couple times and only got to ride in her Jaguar once, when I saw those hand painted cards, I felt very close to her. And thought perhaps she was egging me on to carry on her legacy of artwork with my own drawings - the cards, picture books, and posters that I've continued to produce over the years. And I of course accepted.

Lo.

The Month Before 30

2012-01-18T06:51:00.000-06:00

Before I pinned 'Overthinking at the intersection of work and play' under the title of my blog, I had aimed to 'Conquer the business day and networking night by the age of 30.'

30?
Really?
I gave myself a little less than four years to win the game of life? (Whatever that means.)
Then what? After, I beat the system (at 30) I would just relax and call it quits?
Thankfully, about two years ago I hit the edit button.

Since I started The Early Riser, my blog has continued to progress in tone and content, and through the practice of writing things out each week, I've learned how to approach life in a more mature and rational way. I've learned that timing is out of my control - that plans get made and broken - and that success isn't about wins and losses, dollars earned and dollars spent, square feet and number of cars in your garage. Success is about your level of happiness and it can only be measured by you.

In less than one month, I will turn 30 - that milestone that stands as an ever present stop watch to my blog, despite its absence from the public facing site. Its not like its my scary age - that came and passed at 28 as I cried over my birthday dinner at Morton's. (Peter can attest.) And even though I'm not thinking about conquering the world anymore, 30's approach continues to make me do status checks: How am I feeling? How's the book coming? Married? How is work going? Am I CEO yet? Am I happy?

Today, I checked out like this:
How am I feeling? Healthy - I guess. Although, around 30, I swear it becomes harder and harder to control my mass on Earth - the curves seem to get curvier everyday. Note: Need to resist the urge for seconds - one bowl of Beef Barley should be enough.

How's the book coming? About a week ago, after Peter told me that he wasn't going to live my dream for me, I decided that I needed to commit to it, once and for all. I put pen to paper and started filling out the outline that I've had on hold for the past three years. I'm at 8,500 words. Good start.

Married? CHECK!

How is work going? The usual, 'Good' response, turned 'Excellent' yesterday. And I dare say, the whole conquering thing came true. Around noon at the Reel Club in Oak Brook, over a great chopped salad, my boss told me that I was being promoted. (Huge!) I was going to be working at the next band level, doing marketing and communications for just about the biggest brand in the world. Needless to say, I was and I am ecstatic. And I told her that it came at the perfect time - right before I turned 30.

Am I happy? Absolutely.

At this point, I'm just looking for one more plus. Then ... I'll be all set.

Lo.

Little House, Big Table

2012-01-15T09:43:00.000-06:00

When I received my First Communion in second grade, I got more money than my eight year-old self could have imagined. $25 checks rolled in from the relatives with blessings and congratulations on the significant step I had made in the Church.

In total, I probably received about $300 - an amount that afforded me the pick of the litter at S.W. Randall in Squirrel Hill. I imagined building out my Barbie Collection, buying every Crayola pencil, pen and crayon, replacing my scuffed up tap shoes with shiny new ones, and sporting the rabbit fur coat from Newmans's that I always wanted.

The endless possibilities of a kid in 1990 seem completely dwarfed when I look at $300 today. It seems like nothing. It's not enough for the new cocktail dress that I want, not even enough for one of the pair of Manolos I've been ogling. It's not enough for two round trip tickets to Pittsburgh, my wisdom teeth removal, or a month's worth of gas. And when it comes to home repair and decoration, $300 might just get me an end table.

Our wedding was like my First Communion times 1,000 though. That life step's earning power far outweighed that of my reception of the Eucharist. And just as the gifts seemed to hold the key to making life a little sweeter back then, so to did they in September. But given some uncertainties, after the wedding I grappled with costs, priorities, and future plans before making an investment, and put the money into our savings account, on hold for the perfect purchase decision, just as I ended up doing in second grade.

On Christmas Eve, when we asked eleven people to sit around a makeshift dining room table, we concluded that given our lifestyle - our love of food and entertaining - we were going to make a big investment in a BIG dining room table. Out came the savings and all the Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma gift certificates - and yesterday, into our house came a brand new dining room table and six suede chairs. In a house full of hand-me-downs and the best of our apartments, condos and dioramas past, it is our first new piece of furniture - one that combines a bit of the brewer and a bit of the bee. A piece that makes our home sweet ranch home so much sweeter.

With as much joy and prosperity that the reception of Sacraments has brought me, I knew the table needed one of its own - a Christening. Perhaps, a weekend's worth of christening. Its first diners - Bob and Melissa. Its first meal - slow roasted glazed ribs, over tuscan baked beans and kale gratin. Its first laughs - those hearty kind that come from Bob's ridiculous stories. Its first spill, ironically enough, a little water from the pitcher.

Love the table.
Looking forward to the company.
Thankful for the unbelievable generosity of friends and family on our wedding day that made this table possible. (And cornbread.)

Lo.

Creme de Menthe

2012-01-13T05:53:00.002-06:00

There is a reason why my tongue tingles with excitement from the slightest taste of alcohol. Sure, there's the anticipation of the good times to come, and the sweet savor of the Sancerre that I'm pouring, but there's something more. It's the memories of sips past, especially those first ones I took as a child.

On occasion, we were allowed to live la Vie en France growing up. We were allotted about a shots worth of the wine my parents were drinking in Sherry glasses that we believed were kid-size wine glasses. We tasted wines from Kendall Jackson to Tattinger, and I dare say developed a distinguished palette along with our trials.

And on occasion, when the meal was over and my parents poured themselves a night cap, we became very comfortable ordering our own - Creme de Menthe. While other children knew hot fudge or Hershey's syrup as the perfect ice cream topper, we politely asked for a little Creme de Menthe over our little glass bowls of Breyer's Vanilla Bean. With the amount of food I consumed as a child, I never felt any effects from the wine or wonderful green stuff, but what I experienced on my tongue brought more dimension to the meal.

Last week, in Tortola, I was greeted with the question - 'What would you like to drink?' upon touching down in Beef Island. While my white wine order was filled pronto, Peter's Red Stripe was put on hold until he finished Heske's specialty cocktail du jour. It's name, the Tropical Turtle. It's special ingredient Creme de Menthe.

It was Heske's newest concoction - his piece de resistance after mixing up a lineage of creative cocktails the night before, including a Frog on the Beach, a Gorilla Snot, a Green Gremlin, a Kermit de Menthe, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. The drinks were three parts hard alcohol, one part simple syrup, and a splash of Creme de Menthe, turning each and every one of them into the most alarming, iridescently green color you can imagine.

While I sipped my Chardonnay, Peter got his Catastrophe de Menthe cocktail out of the way, and joined the ranks of those brave enough to die their insides green. For the rest of the week, the magic green bottle played a starring role in our non-stop party. I'd go so far to say that it reached Celebrity status fifteen times over. It even signed Mike's shirt.

It spent its days daring those with more courage than I to take a shot, losing to the one-dollar betters, and peer pressuring those with absolutely no interest in drinking the substance to top off their gin and tonics.

I slyly kept the green juice off of my lips the entire week. And as Heske poured its last sweet drop into his glass, and saluted the fun, memories, and catastrophe that it brought to our days, I felt kind of bad that I had missed out. That I hadn't given it a chance, especially when some of my first memories of drinking, included it as the best ice cream topper of all.

So last night, after the Sancerre, after the grilled cheese dipped in my roasted tomato soup ...

About midway through Moneyball, I took an appropriately timed intermission to make myself a bowl of ice cream topped with the catastrophe. And it tasted as good as I remembered.

Heske, to add to your list of cocktail recipes: a Creme de Menthe milkshake. And I promise a year from now in Tortolla, at the reunion (crossing my fingers), I'll become as Creme de Menthe cool as everyone else.

Lo.

A Mojo-less Monday

2012-01-09T18:40:00.000-06:00

Most mornings, during most morning runs, after most of my 12-ounce cups of coffee, and before I check the trending topics on Twitter, I find it. That is, the perfect theme for the article I'm writing - that one thing that can aptly sum up an activity or a friendship or a weekend worth of fun and make it slightly relevant for readers outside of the family and friends circle.

Today was not one of those days. This morning was not one of those mornings. My cup of coffee was not one of those 12-ouncers. Basically, I had a mishmash of big stuff - meaningful stuff from the weekend to commit to paper and I couldn't find one ounce of poetic commonality to tie it all together.

This weekend, we returned to the Ville in style with a Lou Malnati's pizza on Friday night; we mourned the loss and celebrated the life of Great Aunt Winona at an internment service on Saturday morning; we went for runs and we unpacked; we got a first look at Meredith's new hairdo and shared many laughs with her and Adam on Saturday evening; we celebrated Epiphany; we said our final tearful farewell to Baum and cleaned up Christmas; we cheered, paced, and then cursed in front of the Steelers Game; and of course, we cooked.

And it wasn't just any old cooking - it was epic, big deal cooking. The most fun I've had in the kitchen since last week cooking.

Once upon a Tweet, Peter's friend Jess, a Blogger with a capital B and Chef with a capital C, asked me if I would like to test some recipes for her. She said she had a fast approaching deadline for her cookbook and needed some help. My spastic eagerness joined the Twitter Stream and she sent me several recipes. This weekend, Adam and Meredith got to taste and critique the devilled eggs; and last night, Peter and I sat down to dine and provide feedback on the Cornish Hens with Poached Prunes recipe. It was an amazing experience all around.

That was my weekend, stripped of the witty, old-lady humor analogies. I'll blame the lack of creativity on Monday - the end of the weekend, my vacation, and the holidays. Monday - the return to rush hour, cubicles, the remnants of holiday food left out for mindless grazing, and a cramped back from hunching over to respond to emails all day. And I'll hope that by the time Cinderella comes over for dinner on Sunday, I'll get my mojo back.

Lo.

Resolutions

2012-01-06T06:48:00.000-06:00

Starting the year on island time, losing track of days, savoring the adventure du jour, I've neglected the resolution - the one that I have yet to make.

Prior to injecting myself with Jerk and other island spices, I had tossed around the idea of adding yoga and tennis to my very limited menu of exercise as a resolution. But last night, after another beautiful day on the boat, a picturesque lunch at Saba Rock, a snorkel session off Virgin Gorda, and my first Mojito of the vacation, I came to the conclusion that a spiced up fitness regimen was too glib. That I had found something a little more meaningful while here that I wanted to resolve to keep. Well, three things.

My Resolutions:
1. To Live Adventurously - To keep traveling and exploring - venturing, boating, running, cooking, and working outside of my comfort zone - embracing Peter's passion for the new and unconventional.

(Maybe not that adventurous.)

To Keep Friends Close - To nurture the friendships that I have, whether down the street or a thousand miles away. To continue to build more friendships. And to continue to invite them over for dinner so our (new) dining room table is full at least once a week.

Above All, Be Happy - As I looked down at my nails on the boat ride home from Virgin Gorda yesterday, I realized that I hadn't bitten them at all during this vacation. And I realized it wasn't so much the presence or absence of stress, it was happiness. About the past, present and future. And the certainty that it is within my control to keep it there all year.

Today, we leave Tortola, and as Peter said last night, we will hit the ultimate reverse culture shock when we land in O'Hare at 7:00 PM. Our job, to keep the reverse culture shock in place. That is, to keep the adventure, friendships, and happiness that we experienced here present at work and at home, and to keep a little bit of Tortola on the menu every night.

Lo.

The One That Didn't Get Away

2012-01-05T06:27:00.000-06:00

As a brunette, you might think on occasion, I'd be leery of the blond. As a runner, you might think that I'm envious of the Speedo clad women in the pool swimming next to my husband three days a week. And as an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl, you might think I fear the night owlettes. As it is, I have no fear of other women. And I have no doubt that to my husband, I am the only one. That no honey can out-sweeten his honeybee.

On Valentine's Day 2008 - the first gushy holiday that Peter and I celebrated together - I expressed my jealousy toward my rival in a cartoon drawing that later was replicated as the Save the Date for our wedding. The picture mentioned my fiercest, and I believe, only competition - the Blue Marlin.

Yesterday, the twelve hour fishing tour, turned to thirteen then fourteen hours. I watched the sunset over the cove, and still no sign of the boat coming into the dock. I knew with Captain Tim on board, nothing could have happened on the high seas, but I did suspect something else. That Peter was being seduced. Not by the sunrise that they saw. Not by the Wahoos that they caught. Not even by the Mahi Mahi that shimmied and shined through the water and onto their boat. It was far worse. It was my rival. The Marlin.

Somewhere between Tortola and Anegada, sometime after noon, Peter fought with an 80-pound Marlin and reeled it in. And like the Sirens to Odysseus, the Marlin's beauty, power, and majesty called to Peter. He got close. And then closer. And he saw the iridescence, the magical glow that its stripes exuded, the reason it reigns as queen of the Caribbean Sea.

But Peter let it go. He had already caught his prize. And she was making the jerk slaw for the Wahoo tacos back at the house. I guess I need not fear the Marlin. To Peter, not even the ultimate trophy fish can compete with me.

In all seriousness, I am so proud of Peter for reeling in the big one. And for bringing home enough fish with Tom and Scotty to feed fourteen for a week.

Lo.

A Table for Fourteen

2012-01-04T10:56:00.001-06:00

Peter is on a twelve hour (yes, twelve hour) fishing excursion led by Captain / Pirate Tim. The crew is about six hours in and word came back to the house via text that it's been a prolific morning. They've been reeling the big ones in. Wahoo after Wahoo. Ahi after Ahi. And as I look out over the cove, waiting for the salty sailors to return home with their prized catches, I'm thinking fish tacos with a jerk cabbage slaw. But also an Island Fish Stew. Crusty bread. Perhaps both. Definitely some rice and beans. There are fourteen people to feed after all.

One of my favorite parts of any vacation are the meals. They are actually the only activity that seems to keep you on some sort of schedule. After the sun sets and your first margarita yields its last sweet sip, your stomach bellows a slight growl, and you know it's the best time of the day. That time right before dinner where you scrape off the sand that is stuck between your toes, shower, change, shake up another cocktail and begin to salivate over the specialties of the house and the courses to come.

Here, in Tortola though, the restaurants, a boat ride away, are better during the day, when you don't care if you and your dollars get wet on the swim in. So the appetizers, soups, plates, and desserts of the day are made in our own house - our own creations, made in a kitchen that fits fourteen cooks, and served at a table that seats fourteen famished friends. Oysters on the half shell. Homemade tortilla chips and guacamole. Smoked duck empanadas. Tabbouleh. Carnivorous Quiche. The Fresh Catch of the Day. Our portfolio continues to expand.

A couple nights ago, with the New Year's celebrations checked off the list, I was presented with the opportunity to play the role of house chef - a role that I embraced with vigor, especially with a support crew that seemed equally as anxious.

The first night's performance was underwhelming, a warm up run per se to see if it was possible to serve a table of fourteen when I was so used to cooking for two. There was no grocery store run, so with what was in the house, I made homemade roasted tomato sauce over fettuccine topped with Parmesano Reggiano, green beans, and a chopped salad. Simple and appreciated.

Last night, I put some thought into it though. Along with the crowd, I had the challenge of accommodating gluten intolerance, vegetarianism, and my carnivorous husband. So I decided to make a variety of quiche - vegetarian, carnivorous, smoked salmon, and crustless. We got back from a day at Cooper's Island at 6:30 PM and with the help of the most amazing assembly of line cooks I have ever had led by sous chef, Peter, dinner was on the table at 8:30 PM. And stomachs were fully stuffed by 9:30 PM. A little more elaborate. A little more loved.

Almost seven hours in, and I'm assuming that the haul is growing and that fish will be on the menu tomorrow evening as well. Tonight will be the piece de resistance. I can already taste it. By the growl of my stomach, I can tell it's just about lunch time, but removing myself from the view could be hard right now.

Lo.

Tortola Quiche Night Recipes:
Crust:
2 cups flour
Pinch of sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons butter, chilled and cut into small pieces
3 tablespoons Crisco
7-10 tablespoons ice water (I didn't have to use as much because I was working in a very humid climate and the dough formed much quicker than I had expected.)

Filling Base
12 eggs
2 cups cream
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Whisk together and set aside.

For Vegetarian
1 Cup chopped mushrooms, sauteed for about five minutes in olive oil, juice drained
1 Cup spinach, steamed, pressed of all water, and chopped
Goat cheese

For Caniverous
8 slices of bacon, pan fried, drained of fat, and chopped
6 ounces of Chorizo, chopped
6 ounces cheddar cheese shredded
6 ounces Gruyere cheese shredded

For Smoked salmon
1 teaspoon chopped dill
1 cup spinach, steamed, pressed of all water, and chopped
One package of smoked salmon, chopped
6 ounces Gruyere cheese, shredded

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Sift together flour, sugar and salt. Add butter and Crisco and with a pastry blender or two knives, cut until the dough looks like small crumbs. Add water tablespoon by tablespoon and mix with your hands until it just comes together to form a ball. Ideally, you would then refrigerate the dough for at least two hours, but I had a hungry crowd, so I went straight into rolling it out and inserting it into the greased pans. I didn't have quiche or pie pans, so I used rectangular roasting pans, which did the trick. (This recipe made dough for 3 quiches, but I like my dough thinner.)

Line the inside of the crust with aluminum foil and weigh it down with pie weights or dried beans. I used forks actually because we didn't have the other two options. Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes or until just golden.

Remove from oven and let cool about ten minutes. Line with filling of choice, then egg mixture, then cheese. Bake at 400 degrees for 25 - 30 minutes or until golden brown on top and set.

Remove from oven and let it stand for about five minutes. Serve. Last night I served it with a fruit salad tossed with mint and lemon juice, tabbouleh, and Ciabatta.

The Tortola Schedule

2012-01-03T07:21:00.001-06:00

On New Year's Eve, after Peter and I and the rest of our neon clad crew including one neon pirate and two little neon Indians, took the spring break-like dance floor at Foxie's on Yost Van Dyke from good to unbelievable with the help of a coconut, and just about ten minutes before the revelers were going to count down till midnight, it started pouring. Pouring. The Pain Killers hadn't penetrated deep enough to lose the crowds sense or getting soaked, so the beach party headed indoors, squeezing under the few covered spaces of the infamous bar, but continuing to pulse and writhe to the island rhythms.

As I headed in, perhaps at a speed much quicker than the rest of my group, I lost them. It was me in a sea of sweat, spilling drinks, and last minute claims on kissing partners. 'Okay, this can't be that hard - everyone is wearing bright neon colors.' I checked my watch - five minutes till midnight. I heated up my search, I pushed my way through the channel of people, onto the dance floor, got coaxed to wiggle a little, the coconut was still there, but no neon. I headed to the perimeter again, the shower had passed as quickly as it came, so I ventured onto the beach. No neon tank-xedos. No neon wigs. Ten. Nine. Eight. (Crap!) Seven. Six. (Tears welling.) Five. Four. Three. Two. One. HAPPY NEW YEAR! I looked around and saw glassy eyed girls galore go to town on their new found New Year's kisses. But I couldn't find mine. Where was Peter? About five minutes later, I heard someone yell, 'Want a drink?' from a tailgating table that a boat crew must have left behind. It was the bigger of the Indians. And behind him, further down on the beach, I found the rest of the neon kids. And Peter. Even though I was ten minutes late, and irrationally crabby, I still got a kiss to start 2012 right.

(That's a neon tank-xedo by the way, lovingly designed for the group by Nash.)

I am a girl of routine. Of schedule. Of premeditated plans. Partial blame goes to heredity, but the remainder is unique to me. I am on a vacation without a schedule though, without the elements that enable my daily routine. There is no Starbucks down the road, there is no easy five mile loop to run, bedtime is much later than 9 PM, getting places doesn't happen by car, but by boat, and cocktail hour starts as soon as you get on board. Needless to say, I have been far removed from the kind of plans that I'm used to for the past three days.

Yesterday though, perhaps when I heard Tom say that we had reached mile 8.2 and an elevation of 1,300 feet on the most epic 16-mile run that I have ever done, I started to realize that some of the amazing things happen outside of their scheduled allotment of time.

For instance, on New Year's Day, I had one goal - make it to mass. I found a church, but couldn't find its mass times. I found a driver, but could he drive on the left side of the road? After waking up at 10:00 AM, and after Peter gained the courage to go Left, Left, Left! I figured high noon was our best shot. We got there and the congregation was just leaving. Peter and I offered up a couple prayers, one for traveler's dispensation, and as we were praying, a local woman said she would get Father Walter for us. Father came out, welcomed us to Saint Mary, Star of the Sea, and said he would give us communion. Right there, Peter and I had our own private mass and a blessing on our marriage. As we left, Peter said, that's what happens when people aren't in such a rush.

Then, yesterday, after pounding up and down the driveway as my solution to running during the beginning of the trip, Tom said I should run the island with Mike and him. We'd leave at 5:45 AM. It would be hot. Hydrate. I accepted the challenge, thinking that we would run up and down the undulating hills that characterize the roads here. Peter drove the runners to the far West Side of the island, and Tom told us the problem - the main road, given its narrow twists and turns and crazy drivers, would be a death trap. So we'll go the back way. The back way included the steepest hills that I have ever seen, let alone run up. We scaled 1,400 feet on the run and took in some of the most breathtaking views. Once on the ridge of Tortola, we ran up and down its more gentle slopes, through a couple down pours, past goats and menacing dogs, by locals incredulous of our audacity, then down again, and Garmined in at 16.5 miles. I had planned for a two-hour, thirteen mile, relatively level run. I got something way different - way more amazing - way sweeter to finish in a sprint to Peter who was waiting for us at the end of the trail with water and the camera.

By the time I was snorkeling through schools of tropical fish yesterday afternoon without even feeling cramped or sore from the morning's run, I knew that the Tortola schedule was just what I needed to start the year.

Last night, as Peter and I watched the sun go down over the ocean, I got a really special, sober kiss on a bench that left little between us and a cascading cliff leading to the sonorous ocean lit with pink and purple hues from the setting sun. On January 2nd, I knew that 2012 was going to be an amazing year and that we were ringing it in, in the best way possible.

Lo.

The Last Day

2011-12-31T15:52:00.001-06:00

The winds are blowing with a vengeance this evening in Tortolla. It's fitting I guess. They are hear to blow out 2011 and bring in 2012. And I'm sure they will do it as rapidly as the year went by. I honestly don't know where it went, but in a few short hours, it will be over. And I will only be left with its memories. It's many, many sweet memories.

And while I simultaneously type and think of what Neon creation I will sport this evening for the Neon themed New Year's party organized by our friends and hosts extraordinaire, TnT, I'm reminiscing and of course, getting a little sentimental. I'll spare myself the tears, but I did think it fitting, especially since I did it last year, to count down the blessings of another amazing year gone by too fast.

In a particular order, here are my top ten favorite memories of 2011.

10. Watching the sunset on 2011 in Tortolla. (Sorry to tease, but Peter said it best today while we were boating from the dock to the snorkeling cove, it's like paradise.)

9. Moving into the ranch, and making Peter's house our home. And decorating it for Christmas.

8. Christmas in Chicago.

7. Maui Wowie and learning how to 'live aloha.'

6. The Vegas bachelorette weekend.

5. Running my second Chicago Marathon and beating my time whilst having the flu.

4. Dinner Dates, new menus, and having fun with amazing cookware every night at the ranch.

3. My nieces. Enough said.

2. The honeymoon. In particular for me, the first night we spent dining and walking through the magic of Monte Carlo.

1. Obviously, the best day ever. Getting dressed, walking down the aisle, saying 'I Do,' dancing the night away, and living happily ever after.

And one to grow on ... the fact that 2011 was without a bad day.

Lo.

Slow and Low Pork Chops

2011-12-29T18:24:00.001-06:00

This will be brief. Basically, I was obsessed with how last night's dinner turned out and felt the need to share the images and recipe. The secrets - two ingredients that I had at one point sworn off.

1. Pork Chops. That entree that Meredith ordered along with a Miller Light when I took her to Alain Ducasse's MIX in Vegas in 2005. It came in a mini crock pot and out-performed all the rest of our entrees, leading me to believe that perhaps I should give the chop a chance.

2. Bacon Fat. Peter's go to 'it makes all food taste better' special sauce. The substance that is probably blocking my arteries as I type, but that seriously does do wonders.

The recipe - very (VERY) easy.

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Buy thick cut pork chops - I got mine at Casey's in Naperville. Lean mean machines of protein.

Thinly slice an onion, chop three to four cloves of garlic.

Salt, pepper and sage the pork chops well. Cut a big slit in the pork chops creating a pocket. Stuff an onion slice in each as well as one clove of chopped garlic.

Brown chops on both sides in about 1 tablespoon of bacon fat. About four minutes per side.

Add about 3/4 cup of chicken stock and a 1/2 cup Grand Marnier. Bring to a boil. Surround chops with chiffonaded kale and the rest of the sliced onions and garlic. Cover the dutch oven and roast for 2 hours at 325 degrees.

Wait for it ...

Remove from the oven and serve with garlic mashed potatoes.

I'm telling you - if there was ever a New Year's good luck pork chop recipe, this is it.
To Tortolla.
Lo.

The 4th Day of Christmas

2011-12-28T17:58:00.001-06:00

On the 1st day of Christmas I was feasting, imbibing and giving gifts to loved ones, fluttering with excitement in anticipation of their reaction.

On the second day of Christmas I was at the movies, playing with my new Christmas toys, and out to dinner with the family.

On the third day of Christmas, my parents, sister and Sydney left the ranch, I had to go back to work, and I got a headache.

On the fourth day of Christmas I nearly launched my alarm across the room, pulled the covers over my head and retaliated - played hooky from work - drifted back to sleep so I could continue dreaming of my novel super power to rewind life, returning to the 23rd when Christmas had yet to begin.

Christmas is actually supposed to be a twelve-day celebration, yet on the 26th, Light FM stops playing Christmas carols, the window displays suddenly feature Valentine's Day themed merchandise, you witness the sad tossing of the first round of Christmas trees to the curb, and all the people that were over for the party, go home. It is all very sad to me, and even sadder when I factor in the thought that Baum's days are limited.

There were years past when I had similar symptoms of post Christmas Day depression - a condition that was first discovered by my Aunt Dee back in say, '83. It's the kind of feeling that continues to choke you up when you least expect it, tapping into your stock pile of tears. I had a bad case of it in the middle of a hallway at St. Edmund's in fifth grade, another one in a bathroom stall at Ellis during freshman year, and yet another one mid-500 yard sprint in Loftus during junior year of college. This year it hit on the I-88 commute, yesterday morning, right after I said goodbye to my family. Tears streamed down my face at the thought of returning home in the evening and not having my sister and Sydney there to go for a walk.

In an effort to deduce why the fourth day of Christmas blues hit me harder than they have in a long time, especially when I'm a mere two days away from another amazing party in the British Virgin Islands, I tried to think and write it out this morning. And came across both the reason and my means for overcoming it.

This year, as I had done in fifth grade, freshman year of high school and junior year of college, I gave Christmas giving my all - I put my heart, soul and bonus into making Christmas special, big, epic for others. I cooked, baked, colored, trimmed, decorated, and wrapped some of the most memorable gifts I had ever purchased or made. Then, with pomp and circumstance I gave them away. Now, I'm out of gifts. There isn't one left under the tree and I have to wait a whole year to give again.

Or do I? Cue the solution ... Why is it that we save all the big gifts - all our big hugs - all our special meals for Christmas and a couple other holidays? Why can't we (I) keep giving everyone our all throughout the year, especially since it makes us so happy? My pre-New Year's resolution - to keep the Christmas spirit, giving, peace, joy, and feting in my heart and in my actions every day.

I started last night when I kept on cooking like Christmas. The smile came back.

Today, I continued to give like Christmas. One big gift for our ranch. Big smile came back.

Tomorrow, I'll keep on loving like Christmas. I predict absolute happiness.

And on Friday, on the sixth day of Christmas, I'll be partying like Christmas once more in Tortolla. Joy.

Lo.

Seven

2011-12-26T09:28:00.000-06:00

In the past seven years, I've had seven addresses - seven places that I've attempted to render into limited engagement home sweet homes for myself. I've split time between the midwest and the mid-atlantic. I've squeezed into 600 square feet, and I've spread out in three-story houses. I've been a single tenant, and I've had roommates ranging from rowdy to reserved to downright reclusive. Of the seven, I have wanted nothing more than to move out and move on from six of them, in search of a place in life figuratively and literally that I could tell my friends and family to ink into their contact lists. And then there was the unexpected one among the seven that rose to the occasion.

A couple months ago, when I made the move down Washington, down Benton and into Peter's house, our house, I was expecting that within a year's time we would be moving again. This pristine artifact of retroland, in the exurbs of Chicago complete with keg-orator and saltwater aquarium couldn't possibly be it for us newlyweds. But I believe that in this most unexpected residence I have found my more permanent address.

Although the home sweet home sentiment was mounting throughout December, it became more or less conclusive as Peter ladled clam chowder, the fourth of our seven course fish dinner, into the last of the soup bowls on Christmas Eve. And as I took my seat at the head of the table set for eleven.

Truly, it was this Christmas, through the help of Baum, some new curtains, a daily game of musical furniture set to Christmas carols, the arrival of Moms, Dads, sisters, brothers, grandmas, cousins and dogs, the celebration of Christmas at our parish, the ultimate seven-fish feast, gift exchanges, hearty laughter, a couple tears, and the hearts of this ranch that seem to get closer and closer every day, that I have felt more at home than I have in a very long time.

And it was on Christmas Day, around another beautifully adorned dinner table, surrounded by my extended family, before I took my first bite of turkey, that I toasted to the atomic ranch and to finding home. And although there were jeers at my sappy sentiment, there were also expressions shining with happiness.

Apparently, the story was already written, but my Christmas card wish might just have come true - this was one of the best Christmases ever. And the text and images are coming to you this morning live from my iPad.

Lo.

Best Cookie Tray Ever

2011-12-24T08:26:00.001-06:00

I'm on a very tight prep time line right now - There are seven fishes on a menu for eleven tonight, and there are several process points that need to be covered before 10:00 AM. But before I rouse the landlocked fisherman to pick up the order under 'S' at Whole Foods, I've got a little time to write. Especially, since I've made it 90% of the way toward checking off the sweet part of the prep list.

As you might have read, throughout December I've been practicing the recipes and techniques that will make a very storied cookie tray for our first Christmas as husband and wife - one that encompasses a little bit of each side of our growing family.

Growing up, we became masters of Grandma F.'s recipes, and making her cookies was always the first item on our culinary checklist for Christmas. We would start on the 21st or 22nd and day by day, work our way through each of her handwritten recipes, storing them in tins when we were finished, creating a mountain of metal in the corner of our kitchen. On Christmas Eve, the nearly dozen varietals of Christmas cookie that geometrically filled every space on the big Lenox Christmas Tree platter brought the Midwest and my Dad's side of the family to our annual celebration in Pittsburgh.

That tray was the pride of us kids and was the one-man show on Christmas Eve. Each cookie would be lauded and celebrated for perfection that seemed to outdo itself each year. On Christmas Day though, our tray met two, three, and in more recent years, five or six other cookie trays that represented my Mom's side of the family and my other Grandma's recipes: Nut rolls, mint chip cookies topped with maraschino cherries, crescent cookies, apricot cake, and sandwich cookies. Christmas dessert was always a smorgasbord of miniature sweets that brought back the richest kind of memories.

This year, I've been presented with a challenge - To recreate that smorgasbord in Naperville, without the Aunts who are so adept at covering the Barry territory, and then add two more sides of the family to the equation. (Good thing the Jurviches got me a three tiered cookie tray.) The solutions though. Practice. And recruiting help.

Practice - check. Help - it came. My sister and parents arrived in Naperville yesterday, and together we baked the afternoon away in a kitchen that both Grandmas would have been at home in.

Simultaneously, in two other kitchens, more help. Peter's Mom was making her memorable recipes, and Peter's Oma was making her German specialties - cookies that I've been known to eat four or five of. The result this evening will be the sweetest cookie tray ever.

(My sister wanted me to show that I did end of screwing up some of the nut rolls. She referred to these as turds.)

As a marketer, I know the value of sampling though. So yesterday evening, I used Facebook and one of the best parties of the year as ways to get some initial feedback. I posted a photo of the Hello Dollies to stir some sentiment and my cousins started a dialogue about twenty comments deep about their favorite Grandma cookies and which ones they were each contributing to create their own storied Christmas trays this year. Then I took a plate to Cousin Bob's house for dinner - legend from Jeanne is that his favorite are date bars ... but he never gave me the thumbs up last night. Bob? Waiting ...

To the fishes ...
Lo.

The Card Contest

2011-12-21T11:03:00.000-06:00

As a family we were always very good at geometry. Figuring out how to stuff five carry-on suitcases into Europe's version of a 'family-size car;' parsing out dinner on our plates using our own version of the food pyramid (the version where bread and grains got a lot more clout); and making sure every last Christmas card fit onto the massive bulletin board in the kitchen.

While the suitcase stuffing and plate filling were done well, where we truly excelled was in the Christmas card math. We would order and reorder them to get closer and closer to horror vacui perfection, maintaining the integrity of each card, all to create the ideal display from which to judge and rank them - One of our favorite Christmas activities. There was best picture card; Most classy; Funniest; Best corporate card; Best overall; Worst; and every other year or so, Worst Ever.

Ever since I was young, when I would run to the mail box after school to collect and open the ones that were addressed to 'Mr. and Mrs. and Family,' I have loved Christmas Cards. I love receiving them. I love sending them. I love the statement one of them makes about the person who chose or designed it. I love the little notes that are included. I love commenting on the awkward ones. And I still love ranking them.

There are only three days left till Christmas. And in terms of Christmas Cards, this is crunch time. This is the rush. When the two or three a day become ten or eleven. When the people to whom you sent a card realize that they forgot to include you on their list, so you get their B-List version. When you start to run out of room on your fridge or in your snowman card holder or in your Simon Pierce glass bowl.When you start to file and organize them, entering the best of the best into your own little contest.

I know the next couple of days will bring new entries, but so far, here are the standings ...

Best Picture Card

Most Classy

Most Exciting

Best Detail

Worst. (Okay, I didn't receive this, but when I saw it on Yahoo! News yesterday, I cringed.)

And best overall.
But this needs a little explanation. It wasn't so much the design, imagery or humor behind it. It was the timing - on the first night of Hanukkah. It was the delivery - a knock on the door, a truck driving away, the two people at the dinner table with mouthfuls of pasta both running to the door a la the delivery of the Christmas Story lamp. And it was the sentiment - the chance to shop at Dean and Deluca, the Figgy Pudding it might bring to the table, and the elegant dinner party that it will help make.

And then, there is ours. The best I've ever sent. And one that I'm hoping will rank highly in brother's and sister's own card contests. This year, instead of the usual fine art spin I take on the Christmas card - An Italian fresco depicting the nativity, an Andy Warhol Christmas shoe, Matisse's doves - I designed and sent my (our) very first photo card thanks to Purvis Photography and the best day ever.

The statement I wanted to convey. To Christmas. To 2011. To You. Wishing you the Best. Christmas. Ever. (And I coined that before Glee.)

Lo

Lo, Please Exit Stage Right

2011-12-17T08:25:00.000-06:00

In 1987, my family got its first video camera. Suddenly, our collection of still photos - those that illustrate Christmases and Birthdays, Bartlett Street and St. Edmund's, Quincy and McMurray - progressed into motion, leaving us with the words and actions that preceded and followed the pose. Suddenly, our young personalities came to life on the screen, enriching our memories.

On Thanksgiving, we brought out the very first home video - a compilation actually, of several shorter videos that span '87 and '88. My brother, sister and I had watched this VHS countless times, laughing and confirming what we already knew. But Peter had never been privy to it. So we had a viewing.

It wasn't just the champagne talking - The hairdos, the conversations, the time Aunt Kay called someone a 'Jagoff,' my winking and blinking show, the chin-up scene, and my brother taking a bite of a cookie and throwing it back on the plate were all cause for raucous laughter.

I don't have a digital version of the video, but to paint the picture ... take this photo:

And then add the before and after. Most likely, I would have pushed my adorable brother and sweet sister out of the way, put my leg warmers on, and started doing a song and dance. My dad would have told me to stop and get back into position. Fine. Click. Following, I would have resumed my attention mongering, fighting for center stage, posturing to be the most talented one, playing the role that the middle child theory predicts.

This week, I started thinking about that video and five year-old me on camera. Although me now and me then are decades apart, the imaginary spotlight is still in the fabric of my being. The goal is to be the best - the most - the biggest - the loudest at everything, of all the people in my circle. It's like I believe I've entered a never-ending talent show and I've signed up to do every act in it. And I, judge and participant, always get the blue ribbon.

Over the past couple years though, I've found more and more exhaustion in striving for first place. Mostly, because I've recognized the abundance of talent around me - the people and their products that hands down, win. This week alone, I stumbled on a friend's magnificent photography, another friend's artwork, and publicity in Vanity Fair for another friend's amazing doughnut cookbook (of which I have a signed copy.) Although, I love thinking that I'm such a creative and such a chef, I have friends that do it way better.

During one scene in the home video, my brother walks toward the camera to ask my Dad, the videographer, a question. I in turn, walk up to him, literally cover his mouth and push him away to seize center stage. The camera immediately shuts off. Game over. Had I let my brother finish his query, it might have been something remarkable, something incredibly sweet or the funniest part of the show. It made me wonder how many other people I've silenced in my loud pursuit for number one, and what great things they might have said.

In this week before Christmas, during the time of year when the most magnificent things happened on the most silent nights, I'm going to be a little quieter and more aware of the small voices that have big things to say.

I'll start with my Veal Parmesan last night. It was good, but yours will be always be the best, Dad.

Lo.

Baum

2011-12-14T10:23:00.000-06:00

Peter and I have a very special, very sweet, brand new addition to our little nuclear family. A little someone that I can't wait to wake up to every morning; that I can't stop thinking about at work; and that I hastily swerve through traffic at the end of the day to see.

It's Baum, our Christmas Tree.

We named him on the ride home from Marmion Abbey Farms on Sunday, right after we pulled the car over to prop up the camera, set its timer, and take a picture of ourselves in one of those head-in-hole boards that Peter spotted on the way out.

Last weekend, we had set our sights on trekking into a forest a la Berenstain Bears' Christmas Tree to find the biggest, best tree. But living in the exurbs, surrounded for miles by urban sprawl, we figured a twenty minute drive to the tree farm in Aurora would suffice.

Upon arriving, we classified the wimpy trees left for public chopping as Charlie Brown-esque poor trees. Knowing that we weren't going to return to a decorated tree house if we failed to find our perfect tree, we perused the pre-cut selection - a bounty of tall, full Douglas and Frazier Firs (why didn't they leave those where they were for us to chop down?) Among them was our big guy, calling to us, 'Pick me! Pick me!' So we overlooked it's eight and a half foot stature and the doubt in Peter's mind that it would fit, and packed it into the pick-up. Our very first Christmas tree. In our very first house. In the very first year of our marriage.

After surviving the two-hour hunt for a tree stand during the great tree stand shortage of 2011, finally finding one at the second Home Depot that we tried, we came home to start decorating. As I was hanging ornaments with Il Divo blasting in the background, I got so excited - on the brink of emotional - thinking about our tree and all that will happen under it this year and in years to come. I looked at each ornament - some that were Peter's, some that were mine - and saw how two lives came together this year.

It took us two days to finish - mostly because we needed more lights (still need one last strand) and we needed tinsel (the other item on the Naperville shortage list.) But on Monday night, it was a marvel to behold - the solution to the ranch's interior design challenges - the reason why I now believe we no longer need to spend money on house renovations - all we needed was Baum.

Growing up, I used to spend December evenings laying under our family tree, looking up into its magical beauty - imagining how it surely came to life each night - how Clara danced with the Nutcracker; the trumpet and French horn harmonized with the soulful sounds of the saxophone; Bubby Brister threw a Hail Mary, Bobby Bonilla caught it, and passed it to Mario Lemieux; the train traveled along the bow of the tree to pick up Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, and Donald; me and my brother and sister, ages zero to thirty laughed and played together while Mom and Dad as Raggedy Ann and Andy watched over us; the shepherds herded the clay sheep; Gloria burst out in a hymn of glory and praise in front of a giant stain glass window; all gathered from near and far, right there in our living room to play witness to the birth of baby Jesus under the sun, moon and glimmering, half-eaten Star of David.

At the age of 29, as I gazed up at our very first tree this morning, I sensed the same kind of magic that I felt as a child, but with a new cast of ornamental characters. And I felt completely enamored and blessed by all the amazing things that have come my way this year, including Baum.

As strange as this Christmas tradition might be, I'm totally in love with it.

Lo.

S is for So Much More than Sweet

2011-12-11T09:47:00.000-06:00

This week, Saveur posted a recipe for Dutch Letter Cookies - cookies that the recipe testers behind the magazine had made into the shape of an S. They titled the entry, S is for Sweet. 'Cute,' I thought.

But upon seeing the thumbnail image, I did a double take. 'Wait, I know what those are. And they're not Dutch. They should be crescent shaped, and filled with walnuts instead of almonds. They're Grandma's mini nut rolls!'

I flagged, tweeted, and pinned them, and kept returning to the photo and recipe all week, debating when I should make them, but in the shape of a C for Croatian.

Yesterday, was the day - I pulled out the recipe and made them. But despite my aforementioned claim that I would make them exactly like Grandma did, in the shape of little half moons, I couldn't resist the S-shape. It just seemed to work in a week where S stood for so much more than sweet - where S, could have had its very own Dr. Seuss' ABC's spin-off.

To amuse myself, it would go something like this ...

S is for St. Nick, Santa, and Surprises
This week, I not only got a package from Saint Nick, I got a little something from Santa too. Remember how the real one was in Naperville the other day? Well, he came back and left a little something ironic on my door step. (Not joking.)

S is for the most Super, Stunning, and Smart Sister ever.
Happy birthday big sis, and I really wish I could have been toasting champagne sparklers with you on Friday night.

S is for Seasonal, Sparkling Lights.
Last night, Peter, Claire, Trent and I strolled through Holiday Magic at the Brookfield Zoo. It was just as amazing as I had remembered, and along with the seasonal light display made even prettier by the first snow of the year, we got to see Lions, Tigers, Bears and Gorillas, oh my!

S is for Sixtieths, Sixty-year olds, and Snooze buttons
After Holiday Magic and dinner at Chew Chew in Riverside, we went to my father-in-laws 60th birthday party at a friend's house in LaGrange. The party started at 8:00 PM, and to my Early Riser persona's dismay, we left at 12:15 AM - the latest I had stayed up since the wedding I think. And the amazing part was, the party was STILL going. This group knows how to party - Singing James Brown bobble head, the twist and shout, viewings of the recently crowned champion Vizsla dog, wise and somewhat racy proverbs, endless Scotch, and very loud laughter party WAY better than I do. I brought the S is for my new last name cookies though. Needless to say, I hit the snooze button this morning.

S is for Sentimental and Stipetich
Before I was an S - I was an F, but an F who actually had a little bit of S in her as well. My Grandma Barry's maiden name is Stipetich. And this week, I couldn't stop thinking about her. As you made have noticed from my Flickr photostream, each of my kitchen capers channeled her. Perhaps it was because I know she's having a hard time expressing her memories, and I wanted to help express them for her. Or perhaps, I was thinking, if I keep remembering, she'll remember with me. But regardless, I kept coming back to recipes that she probably learned from her Mom and Grandma, back when she was still a Stipetich.

I made the little crescent cookies that were always on her Christmas cookie platter. And I made stuffed pork chops, roasting them slow and low as she would have done.

And then I made my S's - but with a walnut filling, just like her mini nut rolls. They tasted like I remembered - and they took me back to 126 and Christmas dinners there and having not two or three, but five or six of her perfect little cookies. Which by the way, I now know must have been quite a labor of love.

Yes Saveur, S is for Sweet too - but for the sweet memories of cookies past that I will continue to resurrect and remake in Naperville, so by the time the family comes over for Christmas Eve dinner, I will have all the sweet memories on one plate for us to share.

Lo.

Babysitters Club

2011-12-07T14:07:00.000-06:00

My sister was an avid collector and reader of Babysitters Club books. She devoured just about every volume in the series and when finished, would add them to the line up on the shelf n sequential order from #1 to #60-something, alighting it with the books' bright array of colors.

Being the non-reader that I had chosen to be, I only made it as far as their covers. I did stare down #1 a couple times, debating whether or not it was worth using the precious time I had reserved for my imaginary friends to read it - after all, my sister had seen the benefit. But the internal deliberation didn't last long for I believed that the picture on the front told me everything that I needed to know.

Those tween girls with sassy names like Stacey and Kristi were extremely cool and I really, really wanted to be a babysitter, like them.

In about seventh grade, despite my inability to achieve the chic look of the cover girls, I got my chance. I became eligible, according to some unwritten notion of maturity, as the back-up neighborhood babysitter for my sister. The only problem was, there were no babies on my block, just kids. So basically, I never did any baby watching. Instead, I played the role of paid friend to a kid who was three or four years younger than me. And honestly, I probably had more problems with this age group than I would have had with babies

I had to deal with projectile vomiting - not spit up - I'm talking chunks; the fiercest kind of uncontrollable sibling fights that people would have lined up and paid to watch; kids who were way too old to continue having an affinity for going through life without pants; dogs trained to hate me, glare at me, and stalk me on my way to get myself a bowl of ice cream; parents who were late, later and latest; and kids that knew and used language that I hadn't even heard in the suite of PG-13 movies I wasn't supposed to watch. Sometimes, I wondered who was watching whom. Perhaps I should have read those books after all.

By the end of my sitting gig, I was always disheveled, frustrated, and certain that the next time the family called, I would pass the request to my sister.That is, unless there was a baby, 2 or under, involved. There never was. In fact, in all my years of babysitting, I never once got to watch a baby. I never even got to watch a 3 or 4 year-old.

That is, until last night.I finally got to babysit. And with it, I finally gained admittance into my own little babysitters club. Right now it only has two members - Peter and I - and we tag team any job. Last night, job #1, we watched our little godchild, while her mom and dad went to the movies.

And just as I had thought, babysitting was far easier than kid-sitting. There were no fights and no tears; she ate all of her dinner and nothing exploding out of either end; she stayed up a little later so she could dance to Glee with me, but when Peter said it was bedtime, she went right to bed; Roscoe didn't judge me for loading another helping of spaghetti onto my plate after Ellie went to sleep; and her Mom and Dad were right on time. It was all that I had imagined it to be and more, and I was still in bed by 9:30 PM. (Phew.)

Now, I'm left thinking that volume #1 needs a sequel. Perhaps Lyla will take us up on it ...

Lo

St. Nick

2011-12-06T07:11:00.000-06:00

I guess when you put out the good shoes, you get the good stuff.

Happy St. Nicholas Day, especially to the original Mr. and Mrs. St. Nick! Missing the good old days ...

Lo.

A Fish Called Salmon

2011-12-05T18:56:00.001-06:00

Seemingly, in 1993, households across America suddenly discovered the taste, health benefits, and availability of salmon. Children and families who had previously defined fish entrees by their canned tuna foundation, were delighted to unveil the wonders of this beautiful pink fish. Two households that joined the mass salmon migration were mine and Peter's.

When I was in fifth grade, my family became salmon aficionados. About once a week, my dad would brush it with either his honey-mustard or lemon-dill sauce, grill it and serve it alongside couscous, sugar snap peas, and Breadworks rustic sourdough. I loved it and asked for it again and again, celebrating the fact that it had replaced my Dad's go-to fish dinner, fish with a coat of tan. (As little brother so boldly said, 'woof.')

As fortune would have it, that same year I hit another culinary milestone. As my family gained admittance to the Pittsburgh Golf Club, I gained a golden ticket into the world of old-school, hoity-toity food culture - a wonderful world of vichyssoise and lobster bisque with Sherry; hollowed tomatoes filled with creamed spinach and servings of asparagus held together with carrot rings; table side bread service and little finger bowls of lemon-scented water; tiny gooey macaroons whose size allowed more than my three cookie limit; and the creme de la creme - salmon, seasoned, buttered, wrapped in puff pastry, and roasted till perfection - salmon wellington.The most epic entree - the most cataclysmic discovery of my petite palette - that I could have possibly imagined in fifth grade.

About 500 miles west of the corner table where I was devouring my new favorite food, in the village of LaGrange, Illinois, an eighth grader named Peter was sitting down to a salmon dinner of his own, the fourth that month. Concurrently, his family was having their own salmon bonanza. And while my love for salmon was reaching new heights with the inclusion of puff pastry, Peter's hatred was reaching new lows. Something in the repetition ruined the appeal. Or perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't caught it himself that made it undesirable. Or maybe it was just its color, pink, a girl color. But whatever the reason, he developed into the 'Sam I Am' of Salmon.

I, the salmon lover, married a salmon hater. And rarely, if ever, am I allowed to put it on the menu. I've tried a variety of recipes, but the reaction is always underwhelming, so I've basically given up.

That is, until I thought back to fifth grade. And puff pastry. And my introduction to the divine. Last night, I tried to sneak salmon into puff pastry and serve it for dinner.

But ... on the way to the Seafood counter at Whole Foods, Peter sniffed out my sneaky plan, and made me call an audible. A couple minutes later, I was adding a stop to the meat counter to my grocery getting duties. And we were not only having salmon wellington for dinner, we were having beef wellington as well.

So, it's back to drawing board. And I'm thinking that getting the smoker involved is my last hope.

Lo.

Santa and his Elves

2011-12-04T08:53:00.002-06:00

This week, one of my coworkers told me that the elf on the shelf was back. I didn't know what she was talking about, so I asked her to elaborate. She told me that every year their family's very own elf comes all the way from the North Pole, perches himself on the mantel in their house, and acts as the eyes and ears of Santa in Western Springs, ultimately giving the big guy the 'yea' or 'nay' on whether or not her children have been nice this year.

I was intrigued. We never had an elf on our shelf. Really?
It's a little toy. Here.
(Best idea, product and marketing campaign ever.) Ooooooh ... Do your kids believe it?
My ten year-old is the biggest believer.
(I loved hearing that.)

The other people listening to the conversation scoffed at the elf's manipulative undertones - bewitching your children with messages like, 'the elf on the shelf is watching you. What you say, what you do,' to force good behavior - kind of creepy. I on the other hand, was totally bewitched myself. In fact, I wanted to go out and buy one. For me. Because I too, am still a believer despite what happened in fourth grade.

Just before entering the Holiday Bazaar in 1991, I had emotionally defended Santa Clause in a sea of non-believing St. Edmund students about ready to do their trinket shopping. After we were unleashed in the cafeteria that, for a limited time only, was converted into a PTA sponsored boutique, my friend, Caroline, the wisest of my classmates, pulled me aside.

I asked her, Don’t you believe?

She sighed and said, I believe in Saint Nicolas and the spirit of Christmas.

She was telling me what the others were, in a softer way.

That Christmas I stayed awake a little longer, hoping to hear him.

No bells.

No sleigh landing on the roof.

No reindeer commands.

On Christmas morning, I looked for the tell-tale signs, hoping to see him.

The carrots on the plate were gone, but the bag of carrots in the refrigerator was full again.

The 'from Santa' looked like my Dad’s handwriting.

My sister got a hairdryer, which was not on her list.

After Christmas dinner, I listened to the Aunt’s doing dishes.

So does Adam still believe?

What did you get the kids?

Evan’s list was so difficult this year!

Before going to bed I asked my sister and roommate, someone that was wiser than even Caroline, the big question - does he exist?

And I got an answer:

He’s doesn't, but don’t tell Adam.

From then on, the ever maturing grown up inside of me kept my belief at bay. Apparently, it was foolish to believe such stories. So for fear of ridicule, I just stopped talking about him. And soon enough, so did my family.

But this Friday night, after Peter and I went out for some sushi, we were strolling along the illuminated River Walk, and saw him.

The real him in Naperville.

He was closing up his little visitor's center for the night, ready to go home. I wanted to ask him a question or two, but I figured Mrs. Claus had dinner on the table and didn't want it to get cold. So I just stared. And just as magically as he got from the North Pole to Naperville and back again on Friday, he answered my questions without even asking.

He exists.
And ... he needs me to be one of his elves.

So yesterday, my first day on the job, I set out to be a very good elf. I started working on presents for good little girls and I cleaned the whole house for a good little boy. I spread 10 miles of Christmas cheer on a run around Naperville. Then I made a very good little girl clap when I appeared at lunch. I spent the afternoon making a red and green feast for my family, and I even made those Swiss sandwich cookies again, but marked them as only an elf can do - with a little wishing star. And I put together a magical little movie about the best wedding ever for my guests to watch.

I took my job very seriously. And I loved every minute of it.

So, all you ten, eleven, and twelve year-olds out there. I know you are looking for something and someone to doubt. But I'm telling you, don't jump to a conclusion too quickly. As someone who saw Santa on Friday, and who has asked to be an elf, I've got the truth.

Tweens, be careful what you say, there aren't only elves watching from shelves, there is one who runs around Naperville every morning, reporting good and bad behavior to the big guy up North.

Lo.

Countdown

2011-12-02T09:49:00.000-06:00

The world has gone mad. Literally mad. Like 'everyone on their way home from work the past two days suddenly turned the I-88, to Diehl Road, to Ogden Avenue corridor into a bumper cars death match where they particularly want to get the black Mini Cooper' mad. I can feel the mad from ten miles away - the mad that caused the kind of shouting, cursing, gesturing, eye-rolling, head-shaking, and finger pointing that backed up traffic ad infintum. What's the big deal people? What the hell are you all so stressed out / pissed off / outer annoyed / inside exploding mad about?

What's that? Oh ... because it's the holiday season. And you only have 25 days to do all that holiday stuff that you are supposed to do. And instead of relishing in it, you are stressed. And mad. At me, the Mini Cooper, your last obstacle to turning the corner, opening your garage, and rushing inside so you can string the lights, trim the tree, hang the wreath, and keep up with the people next door who already had their display up yesterday.

I've been baffled by drivers the past two evenings. What about the holidays stirs these kind of angry emotions? I honestly find myself in a completely alternative state of mind.

For instance, yesterday morning I woke up to the best thing ever - my advent calendar. A little paper one - number 29 in a lineage of advent calendars purchased by my Mom, gifted to me at the start of this sacred time of year. I popped open the number 1 to reveal a small segment of scripture, getting me one day closer to the manger scene, and I beamed. December 1. What a day.

December 1 marks the start of THE best month of the year - Early dismissals from work, cookie baking, Christmas decorations, buying your very first Christmas tree, a perpetually full table behind Vicky's desk to snack from all day, holiday parties, present wrapping, carols on the radio, Christmas card opening, greenery, and gifts, and conversion of Grinches! Love it. Yet, everyone seems to get stressed about it.

I think I figured out why yesterday. It's the omnipresent countdown and the daily to-dos that accompany it. For example, both BonAppetit.com and Saveur.com have a cookie baking countdown till Christmas loudly playing on their homepages. According to them, you are supposed to bake 31 days of cookies. Then if you go to Saks.com you start to think you need all of the hot, must have dresses for every holiday occasion, from day to night. From there you've got lists from FTD, Hallmark, Pottery Barn, North Face, Wine Spectator, Whole Foods and the neighborhood hardware store. By the time you calculate the amount of time you have and all the things you could do, you've gone crazy.

Commercializing Christmas doesn't just suck because it takes the spirit out of it, it sucks because it makes everyone go insane. My humble advice - commit to 10 or 12 days of Christmas, not 31. Do what you can do, have fun each time you deck the halls, and don't compare yourself to the people on the block who have turned their house into Kaufmann's Santa Land circa 1989. (You thought Halloween was bad in Naperville.) Turn on the carols on the way home from work. Relax, you'll get there. Realize that everyone most likely has enough stuff already, and probably doesn't need the last minute gifts you are rushing around to buy - give them a hug instead. And try to drown out the advertisements.

Now, I'll have you know, that I failed to follow my humble advice. Yesterday, I opened the first window of the virtual advent calendar on Saveur.com - the one telling me to bake a different cookie every day. And I fell into the trap. It revealed Spitzbeube - Swiss raspberry filled cookies - those perfect little sandwich ones. I did debate whether or not I should wait a day or two to delve into the holiday activities, but there was nothing on Vicky's desk yesterday, and figured I needed to contribute. Besides, Peter's famous chicken noodle soup was on the menu, so my 'night off' allowed me a little time to bake. And it was as fun as ever.

Happy December Days.

Lo.

The Best Friend

2011-11-30T17:03:00.000-06:00

Recently, I realized something - for the past three months, I have been a somewhat lousy / very distant / pretty pathetic friend. The light bulb went off this past weekend when I neglected to contact any of my friends on Thanksgiving - when I surrendered to the games of phone tag I've been playing - and when I realized that the only way I've shared honeymoon stories and photos with them has been through my blog. I used to talk with my girlfriends every day! I used to know every little detail of their lives - and they used to know mine. What happened?

Just as soon as I had this realization, I pinpointed the culprit - that little someone who has been responsible for softening many of my friendships in the past - someone who I have always counted on for support, love and laughter - but who sometimes alienates me from the rest of the world - the best friend.

The concept of a best friend - naming one person as the creme de la creme of your circle of friends - can work really well, but it can also be a little tricky. Especially if aren't sure that your best friend reciprocates your superlative affection or the other people on the outside, looking in, lose interest in your friendship. Some people believe in best friends, some people don't. I for one, have always believed in them, and I've always had a best friend or two or ten.

In grade school, I had just one. And we did everything together. We had our own jokes, our own language, our own logo (yes, a logo), and our own table where we would order tuna salad sandwiches with Cape Cod potato chips at Max and Erma's. With her by my side, no one else in the world existed - and the other friends I had drifted away, annoyed by our exclusiveness.

In high school, I picked up another one, and the three of us helped each other through the rungs of our academic and social evolutions. After spending all day at school together, we would run home to talk on the phone, spending hours making sure no stone was left unturned in our knowledge and understanding of each other.

Freshmen year of college, when my besties went elsewhere, I immediately found two more friends with whom I could bike to practice, play the role of really awkward girl at a senior lacrosse party, and gain consolation when each of my crushes chose other less bulky girls over me. Immediately, we were a trio of best friends with an armory of inside jokes.

By the time I graduated MBA school, I had about 10 best friends, and each of them were in my wedding. One of my favorite parts of that special day was hanging out with them in the morning - seeing their smiling faces - hugging them - remembering all that we had been through together and how each of them had influenced me.

Now this is the sad part. With the exception of a brief Thanksgiving drink last weekend with my go-to Max and Erma's date, and a drunk tailgate drive by of #27 at Notre Dame, I hadn't talked to any of my friends on the phone or in person since the wedding. Terrible, (I know!) So yesterday, I laid rest to the ennui of e-mail and finally phoned a friend. And caught up. While chatting with my friend, Nicole, who admitted to being equally bad at keeping in touch as me, we both realized the reason why ... it was because we both had new best friends who were monopolizing our time. And they weren't girls, they were boys.

Mine is Peter.

And he is the kind of exclusive, clicky, I do everything with him kind of best friend. I honestly never thought it was possible for me to have a boy as a best friend, but all signs point to it being right. He is always there to lend a helping hand - he doesn't care that I use twice as much toilet paper as him - he gives the best kind of hugs and back rubs - he makes me laugh as heartily as Meredith - he too wants to create a crest or logo for our partnership - and before he leaves for work he says things like "I'll see you at our regularly scheduled special time." Which just makes my day.

Long ago though, before each of my best friends had boyfriends, and fiances, and husbands, we promised each other that we would never let boys get in the way. That we would always be there for each other.Although I can use the excuse that my husband is my best friend as well, he's still a boy. And I still need to be there for my girls. So tonight, I'm saying a little apology for being the foreign friend. And recommitting to the click that I couldn't live without.

Having a best friend is great. But having best friends with an 's' makes life a lot more fun.

Phone tag - game on!

Lo.

Falling Water

2011-11-28T06:24:00.000-06:00

Although it's been in the best possible way, Thanksgiving weekend in Pittsburgh more or less consisted of two primal elements - eating and exercising. Feasting and attempting to counteract the thigh plumping consumption with vigorous daily activity. Hoping to achieve the improbable result of not gaining a pound even though you are well aware by the residual sugars in your mouth that you have done more than your part to kill three of the five pies served on Thanksgiving Day.

So after two plus days of the eat and run/walk/bounce the baby/throw the football/play lacrosse routine down, I felt like Saturday called for some culture. I felt like I needed a day of enlightenment where I could resurrect and relish in my degree in art and architectural history - a rare degree serving about .005% of the population.

Having previously toured all the museums in Pittsburgh with Peter, and given that it was one of the balmiest November days ever, I decided that we should venture outside of Pittsburgh, into the mountains, and onto the property of Falling Water, Frank Lloyd Wright's pivotal residential masterpiece built for the Kaufmann family in 1939 over Bear Run Falls. So my sister, Peter and I made a day trip out of it.

The little architectural excursion came at a perfect time actually, as I put the final details on the ranch renovation brief for our future contractor. Although nowhere near the scale and genius of Falling Water, there are aspects of our retro home that call to mind Wright - aspects that if redesigned under some of the principles of Falling Water, could help make it more than a box.

First, the theme of organic architecture perfectly embodied in Falling Water - a retreat where man could truly be one with nature - with the sound, dynamism, and power of the Falls. Wright seamlessly fused inside and out: The woodland springs and landscaping flow naturally into the house; The boulders that the house was built upon almost magically emerge from the limestone floor; And the lines, textures and colors meld with its surroundings as if the home was always meant to be there.

Second, the open floor plan - another Wright signature. Wright was a strong proponent of family centered life, so in his homes he built community spaces free of walls, where the family could be united in space despite being segmented by their various activities. All was centered at the hearth though - the heart of the home - a warming, illuminating, massive element that brought character, charm, and togetherness to the house.

Wright sought to destroy the box at Fallingwater. He hated 'the box.' (And in it's very nature, surely, would hate our ranch.) Through designing nooks and niches in the house, lowering the ceilings forcing your gaze outside, employing the circle and semicircle to soften the planar lines, and pushing glass and steel straight against the stone to diminish the role of the wall, he freed the house from corners and compartmentalization. Instead you want to continue to move through the house - and with it, from inside to outside, room to room, natural element to natural element.

Finally, Wright used cantilevers, trays more or less, solidified on immense boulders and thrust over the Falls like diving boards, plunging almost miraculously over space. The result is a house nearly floating in air, suspended over the falls. It is magical.

So, from Falling Water to add to the ranch renovation brief:

Organic, open design that fuses inside and outside.
Need ways to destroy the seven or so smaller boxes that make up the big box we live in.
We don't have a hearth, but our stove is the heart of the house.
We lack space - perhaps using a cantilever and adding a tray off the back could open the house up more.
Oh, and unlike Falling Water, stay on budget. But if you can find the skilled Falling Water laborers that cost 75 cents an hour, that would be great.

At the end of our tour, we figured it had been long enough without a meal - we had earned our picnic. So we ate. And then moved on to Ohiopyle to hike it off.

Lo.

Thankful

2011-11-25T07:05:00.004-06:00

The common complaint at this time of year is that we bypass Thanksgiving and move straight to Christmas. Since Halloween, the McMansions in Naperville have been bedazzled in twinkling lights; for the past month at Starbuck’s, I’ve been drinking out of nutcracker covered cups; and on the TV, radio and Internet, holiday specials have plastered the media waves. What about that wonderful turkey and pumpkin pie-fabulous national holiday?

I used to have a similar complaint. That is, until my media consumption patterns shifted entirely toward web based food sites. Where, I have been celebrating and salivating over, not Christmas, but Thanksgiving for the past three weeks.

I’ve been reading about medleys of nouveau stuffing; sweet potato pies, mashes, and fritters; the best turkey ever; and deserts ranging in size from mini to monstrous. I’ve read twelve course menus and intricate cooking guides. I've deciphered how one might achieve that perfect balance between traditional and innovative. And I’ve probably gained twenty virtual pounds over the course of these morning musings.

I was tempted for weeks to make a couple of these recipes - to push the holiday and have a little trial Thanksgiving in Naperville, but I thought better. I didn’t want to spoil the beauty, the joy, the perfection of the best meal of the year and the first bite that goes along with it.

For those that don't know, my Dad owns Thanksgiving. I shouldn't brag or tell you that your kitchen trials will never reap the rewards my Dad achieves every year, but I'm going to. I swear, there is no professional chef that could do it better. He prepares every element (with the exception of the smorgasbord of pies) from scratch - a feast, handed down to him by his Mom, that has served our family well for decades and decades. Each part of the meal is more time consuming than the next - more beautiful than the next - more delicious than the next. And as a non pot-luck embracing family, I literally have no hand in it - my clothes remain greaseless, unfloured, and spotless from start to finish.

This year did not disappoint. It was Peter's first Thanksgiving in Pittsburgh, and luckily, there was enough room for us and Luke at the adult table. (He is a budding philanthropist with a mission to save small businesses after all.)

We got to sing 'Johnny Appleseed' - eat the stuffing out of the bird - take as much white meat off the 21-pound bird as we wanted - cut into the unannexed cranberries - get mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes - pour the gravy straight from the china gravy boat - and sip Yellow Label instead of Korbel Brut. Oh wow, the adult table made Thanksgiving better than ever.

On our run. At mass. In the yard, playing football. Around the table, toasting to a great year. On the couch, watching (very) embarrassing homevideos.

In the hallways, watching the cutest young family play with each other.

And while sitting with Peter in a turkey como after dinner. My smile kept getting bigger and bigger as I counted more and more blessings. It's been an amazing year. And as cheesy, corny, and dorky as it is, I am honestly overjoyed by thanksgiving.

Now. You can celebrate the Christmas season.
Lo.

Casserole, Mold, or Croquette?

2011-11-23T07:20:00.000-06:00

In 1988, my family invested in a condo at a ski resort outside of Pittsburgh named Hidden Valley. Given the "time is money" mantra that my parents live by, we bought the model home, complete with all the teal and pink furniture, linens, dishes, fake cantaloupe halves topped with maraschino cherries, fake ferns, baskets, artwork, and chopped wood for the fireplace. Hidden Valley was our contemporary 1980s showpiece.

For the nearly 20 years that we owned the place, it remained relatively unscathed. The only things we had added were our second tier personals - our less than favorite picture books (or if you were my sister, big girls books), St. Edmund's Bazaar trinkets for our nightstands, long johns, neon turtlenecks, and stirrup pants, and our family's characteristic make-your-child-look-like-a-sausage ski pants and coats. By 2007, when it was sold, it could have been auctioned off to a museum as a late 80s archival piece.

My parents more or less traded the Hidden Valley condo for its equivalent in South Bend, right off of Notre Dame's campus. And although not all of the time-warped furniture, fake food and artwork made the move, there were some classics that traveled straight from the Laurel Mountains to Indiana.

This past weekend, when we stayed at the condo for the game, I noticed a lot of that stuff - the collection of baskets on top of the kitchen cupboards, the linens, the mismatched gloves and glove liners, the Parcheesi board with missing pieces, the pink and teal dishes, the nightstand trinkets, and the big furry blanket we used to wrap ourselves up in after a day on the slopes. Although Ethan Allen has tried to mask and update its presence, on Saturday evening, while eating a popular apres-ski option, tacos, I honestly felt more like I was in Hidden Valley, than South Bend.

A couple of other things I noticed on my where's Hidden Valley search were two cookbooks - one by Family Circle, the other, pictured below, by Better Homes and Gardens.

The latter was apparently a gift from my Grandma to my Mom on her 26th birthday - something to guide a busy working mom in the kitchen perhaps. I immediately recognized them from the cookbook lineup at Hidden Valley. Their coloring and cover photos were unmistakable. But I had never delved into the finer points of these gems.

So ... I leafed through, and then browsed, and then gaped and devoured each recipe, caption and image in these books. I couldn't believe what I was reading - what I was seeing - what meal solution suggestions were being doled out. From what I can decipher, a home cook with a busy schedule in 1977 had three, maybe four options for dinner. "Honey would you like a casserole, a mold, or a croquette tonight? .... And no, I'm not going to go to all the effort to make fondue."

The books are sectioned off by quick, quicker and quickest meals, ending with a trifecta of optimal fast dinner solutions for the working woman: the hot dog sauerkraut bake, the chicken of the sea stuffed tomato, and finally, the meatball confetti mold with the classic tag line, "canned corn, canned carrots, canned rice and canned meatballs make this confetti mold easier than ever!"

What shocked me more than the recipes, ingredients, and food photography, is how far culinary culture has come since the 70s. That is, the drastic difference between what meal preparation was and what it is today. Even if you think you have no idea what you are doing in the kitchen, with all the literature, media, ingredients, quick recipes, and peer-to-peer culinary guidance at your disposal, you are honestly well on your way to being a better cook than Betty Crocker circa 1977.

After closing the books, I debated whether or not to bring them back to Naperville with me, pondering if I could actually serve something as curious, yet elaborate as this for dinner ...

But I didn't. And now, I regret it. Just as I regret not being at Hidden Valley the day that our condo was packed up and parsed out between what stays and what goes - not being there to say, 'I want the gumball machine, the wooden crocodile, the neon pink ski goggles, and the little red bed' - I regret that I could so easily dismiss a part of my cooking heritage. I'm nostalgic, yes. But I think we are too quick sometimes to push the relics of our past aside.

So, I'm reneging. With a cupboard full of Jello molds from Aunt Jeannie, our retro ranch begging for some deviled eggs, a new vintage party dress to wear, and those cookbooks just waiting in South Bend for me to use them, I think I'm going to go get them and start a new chapter in my kitchen capers.

Before that though, we're off to have the perfect bite and all the rest of the amazing ones that follow in Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. And maybe, maybe, if it snows, we'll hit the slopes.

Lo.

A House Divided

2011-11-21T16:18:00.003-06:00

When a Pitt girl marries a West Virginia guy; a Carolina fan marries a Duke fan; a Michigan cheerleader marries an Ohio State football player; a Texas Barbie marries an Oklahoma farm boy, or a Yale nerd marries a Harvard nerdier, family and friends shake their heads in disapproval, ask them if they're sure they've made the right choice, and fear for the worst. The couple claims that they can see past their collegiate differences - that they are more than their Alma Maters - that when the big game comes around, they'll love each other for good or for worse, through win or through loss, all the days of their lives.

When this Notre Dame girl, who comes from a family gilded by the Dome, married that Boston College boy, I expected a lot more incredulous questioning. But honestly, there wasn't a lot of concern in the minds of my friends and family. I'm thinking it's likely due to the fact that both of our teams haven't been in the running for a National Championship in nearly two decades. Perhaps if I had married Peter back in 1993, there would have been more "you've got to be kidding me, he went to BC?" commentary. As it is, the mediocre at best football teams that we halfheartedly cheer for, have never really spurred a fight between me and the Super Fan.

But, every so once in a while, there is a certain house divided scenario that pops up. It's not about sports, it's about everything else.

The argument is over whose school is better. Not at football. Just at being a college. Peter, who went to both schools, one for undergrad and one for his MBA, claims that he has the superior perspective, and that from his perspective, hands down, BC is the better school. He also claims that Domers have an insecurity complex when it comes to Boston College - the team that has beat them six out of the last nine years. That Domers are so insecure that they can't help but say things like, "Jiminy Christmas Trees and God Almighty, it's only BC!" (yes, these were the domerific words that I truly heard on Saturday at the game.)

While I roll my eyes and drown out his commentary, I do put together a little analysis to battle my own inner insecurities.

BC versus Notre Dame
Academics: ND's back-up school versus ND. (I'm going to get it for writing that.)
Student Life: Boston versus South Bend.(He wins.)
Food: Grilled to order steak versus a portfolio of fried pastas.(He wins.)
Housing: The cockroach infested Mods versus the slumlord, Cramer's, mice infested shanties.(Draw)
Nightlife: (Apparently) thriving versus a nearly dry campus due to the administration and the SBPD. (He wins.)

On Saturday, as staunch supporters of our respective undergrad Alma Maters, we drove down to South Bend for the holiest rivalry in college football - Me dressed in green and gold, Peter layered in a collection of Boston apparel.

While we walked around campus, we debated the finer points attached to the supremacy of our colleges. I said a prayer for a win. And we didn't budge in our convictions.

At halftime, just about when the band was spelling out Chicago as they played, "Saturday in the Park," I asked the trumping question of Peter. "Why didn't you go to BC for business school if it is so much better than Notre Dame."

He replied, "because I wouldn't have met you."
With that ... I won. (And I just so happened to win on the rink and in the stadium as well this weekend.) Notre Dame is better than BC because it has me.

And as the winner of the debate, after we reunited our divided house I made the loser wear his new Coach Kelly t-shirt and make me clam chowder for dinner. And as the good sport that I am, I did all the dishes.

Lo.

Vegas to the 5th

2011-11-17T20:40:00.000-06:00

"Of course sinful places never look their best in the daylight. I remember thinking that Las Vegas looked rather endearingly pathetic when viewed over a cup of coffee and a doughnut. All that noise and electric energy that is loosed at dusk vanishes with the desert sun and everything suddenly seems as thin and one-dimensional as a film set."
- Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There

I have watched the sun come up over the Strip the past two days. Bill Bryson nailed it. At 5:00 AM, looking out the window from the 29th floor at the Cosmopolitan onto the Bellagio Fountains, a line-up of the best hotels in the city - Caesar's, The Venetian, Palazzo, Wynn and Encore, and then onto the mountains in the distance, Las Vegas is illuminated, brilliant, rich, textured, and alive. At 6:30 AM, it is entirely different - like the endless, flat film set that Bryson describes.

What he didn't capture in his dead-on description of Vegas' dichotomy, is how terribly boring the city is, not only during the daytime, but in the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, after you've been here five times in a year - how predictable, scripted, and lackluster it is when you've experienced it time and time (and time and time and time again.)

The confident Crew-enhanced, Aqua di Gio saturated guys ogling the biggest boobs at the bar are five times skeezier.
The second hand smoke is staler, stuffier, and smellier than you can possibly imagine.
The life progression of a woman from hot, hopeful hostess with a platinum bob, to disappointed cocktail server with bags under her eyes, to disgruntled, over-the-hill, cigarette sales lady in the too-tight dress, to homeless person looking for a down payment on her next bottle of moonshine seems transparently apparent.
The crowds and their lack of spatial awareness are particularly stupefying.
The blinking lights and siren-like sounds of the casino floor penetrate five times deeper into your already established headache from your desert-induced dehydration.
The food, though good, doesn't taste nearly as sumptuous as it should because the service staff at just about every celebrity chef-owned restaurant in town is snootier than the next.
The exponential growth of reflective surfaces and mirrors in the city make it and its visitors vainer than ever.
And the lines - for the buffet, the newest show, the hot Club du jour, the roller coaster, the chance to cross the street, or the privilege to stare at one of the many seedy pole dancers are five times more thoughtless. (Seriously, your wife is ten million times more attractive than the cracked-out import from overseas whose only move is bending over, jiggling, and showing off her fake boobs that the casino floor manager donated to her in exchange for an exotically wild night.)

How do I know all of this? Because I have literally taken off from Chicago and touched down at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas FIVE times this year.That is three, four and five times too many. I'm here for a marketing conference, and although content-wise, it's a good one, I wonder why conference coordinators don't realize that Vegas is no longer the choice locale.We've all been here before!

On the plane ride, I was sitting next to a Vegas first-timer. Like the stinker I can be, and as the proud owner of the right to open and close the shutter whenever I saw fit, I shut it so I could read without the interference of blinding sunlight. Around the Rockies, the girl started leaning over me, halfway into my seat, totally disregarding my spatial boundaries to look through the crevice that I had left open. Seriously, it's just a bunch of mountains, girl.

But after considering my first time, back in 2004, right after graduating from college, and all the excitement and fun that went with it, I thought better of my decision and granted her a full view. She didn't stop staring until we landed, and although annoying, I gained a little bit of her perspective.

I saw her rush off the plane and into a cab so she could meet up with her best friends; the itinerary for the night starting with a primping party in the room; their strut four-abreast down the strip to Caesar's for drinks, a light dinner, and dancing; the hope that the guy she had baited and captured at the VIP table could against all odds be Prince Charming; the realization after he called her "babe" that the past three hours were nice, but not worthy of her full time; and the hangover nursed with laughter about last night's antics with her girls.

That's the Vegas that I loved. But as I sit here missing Prince Charming at home in Naperville this evening, I know I'm no longer in the market for those kind of nights.

The lights are back on all along the Strip and the magic that Bryson describes is back. And I hope tonight is just that, magical, for the girl that sat next to me on the plane and for all the other first or second timers out there.On my last night of 2011 and perhaps of this entire decade in Las Vegas, I'll be toasting 702, the Ellis Girls, TnT, my wedding party, and all the conference attendees past that have made this city so much fun.

Viva Las Vegas!
Lo.

Where Three Sibs Meet

2011-11-14T07:11:00.000-06:00

"Never have an odd number of children - there will always be one left out."
- Anonymous parent

In Milwaukee, Pittsburgh Street turns into Milwaukee Avenue which runs through the historic gut of downtown. Around the trendy Third Ward, Milwaukee Avenue intersects with Chicago Avenue. If you turn left on Chicago, you hit the shops, spas, and restaurants of the city that can play supporting roles to a great afternoon.

This weekend, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee and Chicago collided figuratively as well. My sister, brother, and I flew, pushed a stroller and drove to be together in Lyla's hometown. And we spent Saturday afternoon relaxing on Chicago Avenue and Broadway.

The rest of the weekend was spent eating and drinking. Running and walking. Praying and playing. Spa-ing and shopping. And a lot of Lyla ogling.

It's hard to believe, but we're all in different cities than each other right now, and getting together is a little more challenging than the days when we could just meet by the (non-cordless) phone at the top of the stairs. We'd wait there for the 'go' sign from Mom and Dad on Christmas morning; we'd collide to harass the phone user and the gentleman called to the point of erupted fury; we'd meet to argue whether or not practicing the flute at 9:30 PM was allowed; and we'd join together and laugh after we each got a knock on our door by Dad, alerting us that the turkeys were once again in the yard.

An anonymous parent once told me to never have an odd number of children - say three. She said that one will always be left out. That two will always gang up. That three means one will always have to sit by a stranger on the Thunderbolt. I have to disagree. Because the three of us are and have always been there for each other. Sure, there were afternoons - backyard games - dinner time conversations that stirred some sibling rivalry. But you could always count on number three to bring us together again, instead of choosing sides. And reconciliation tended to happen at the top of the stairs.

Around 1997, when my sister went to college, the hallway and meeting spot that joined my path with my sister's and brother's became a little less connective. My brother and I still intersected daily, but it was weird not having my sister around the corner anymore. Then I went to college, and my sister and I shared a path to North Dining Hall, while the hallway in Pittsburgh left my brother alone. Throughout the next decade, there were years when I was more likely to meet up with my brother. And years when my sister was just a walk down Carson street away. Years when we only shared the hallway on the holidays.

We're all apart now, and it leaves me wishing that we were closer.

After I got back home from Milwaukee yesterday, Peter and I intersected on West Street for dinner - a meal that brought together the hunt and my love of Italy. Peter had shot ducks early Sunday morning in southern Illinois, so I rendered them in duck fat, Burgundy and stock until they formed a ragout.

I made homemade pappardelle, and served the ragout over the noodles.

Peter felt very field to table as we feasted, and I felt thankful that the dining room would most likely always be our point of intersection. That when we had a family, this would be the place where our children would meet up to make fun of their parents, exchange trials of the school day, and compliment Mom's home cooking (wishful thinking).

My Mom, one of eight, told me that my siblings would always be my best friends - I'm glad that I have two of them. And just as easily as the city of Milwaukee brings together our corners of the world, so too does the bond, the stories, and the compassion that we share with each other.

Lo.

Getting Better than Standard

2011-11-11T15:00:00.000-06:00

The day you fall back is great. You get an extra hour of sleep, you feel refreshed, and you embrace the coziness of the early darkness. But following the Sunday fun, comes that first week of Standard Time. And it tends to be just that, standard. As in not particularly special or refreshing or cozy.

For some reason the first week of Standard Time 2011 was particularly rough. The peppy melody of my alarm suddenly became a dour and dreaded tune; the rain and cold and then yesterday, snow, that came with the time change was dreary; scandalous news defaming my home state's university was disgusting; leaving the office to drive home through the darkness was disheartening; and knowing that the next day was predicted to get worse was downright depressing.

More often than not this week, I felt glum and discouraged. And I begged myself to snap out of it, thinking of the advice Peter gave me - it was my choice to be sad or happy. I kept saying, "I choose the latter. I choose the latter!" But contrary to his belief, it isn't that easy.

Over the years, especially during that time in my life when weeks like this one turned into months and seasons, I've learned a thing or two about dealing with compounding crabbiness . In my findings, you do have to make a choice. But it's not as glib as Peter's cure-all solution. Basically, you have to choose to look for the good in your day instead of the bad. During the darker days, like the standard ones, the good can be harder to spot, but once you see it, bit by bit, it lifts you up.

For instance, on Monday, after I had nearly been knocked off the Monopoly board nine or ten times by the notoriously aggressive Naperville commuters, there was a glimmer of hope. The death-defying, saintly Benton and Mill crossing guard, took three confident steps into one of the scariest intersections in downtown Naperville. For me. She tamed the tenacious traffic with her STOP sign for me. And as I waved and expressed my gratitude for helping me get back to 'Go' safely, some of the standard went away.

Then, there was this man on Tuesday, standing on the corner with me as we waited for our turn to cross the street, holding our ground against the wind and rain coming at us from all directions. He turned to me and said, "man, you are one intrepid runner."
I asked him to repeat what he said. I had heard it, but I needed another second or two to figure out what intrepid meant.
Intrepid - fearless, heroic, brave, bold. (cool.)
"You are one intrepid runner."
That statement made me beam. Not only had this man told me that I was bad ass in so many words - he had challenged my vocabulary for the day and gifted to me a bonus word that I could add to my cache.

On Wednesday, the Polish priest at mass who usually allocates the better part of the day to slowly reading and elaborating on his homily, closed the Gospel, and said "we're not having a homily today." That was just about as good as it gets.

By Thursday, I was still laughing about the snuggie story, proudly wrapping my favorite wallpaper around my blog thanks to my friend, Pam, hugging Ellie, feasting on Pfifferling Suppe, crusty rolls, and apple kuchen at Claire's house with the whole family, and completely snapped out of standard. By Thursday, I had recognized once again that the good in this world far outweighs the bad.

Sometimes it comes from a person who is in your life for a minute. Sometimes it comes from a person who is in your life forever. But it and the people who spread it are everywhere. You just have to choose to see them.
And then to be one of the people who shares goodness with others. On 11/11/11 - on Veteran's Day - and on Friday - I'm better than standard. I'm good. No, I'm super.

Lo.

The Great Gun Debate

2011-11-08T11:01:00.000-06:00

I come from an anti-gun establishment - a household where even the purchase of a Super Soaker was scrutinized. Real or fake, in my family, purchasing a gun was out of the question. So as kids, we played the kind of non gun-toting make believe that always threw our friends for a loop when they came over.

Well ... we're not equipped to play cowboys and Indians here. Would you like to reenact the Johnstown Flood instead?

I did hold and shoot a gun - once. Riflery elective, session II of Calvary Camp, 1999. The sole reason I joined this elective was to have the counselor that I had a crush on help me handle my gun. But since I was the awkward 17-year old camper, I ended up getting no attention at my station, pulled the trigger, and launched a shot that missed the target, hit something else, and ricocheted, Christmas Story style, back at my lip. Blood dripping from my mouth was not the hippie hot look I wished to impress that day. I did finally get some attention from the cute counselor, but it wasn't the fawning kind - it was more medical and carried with it incredulous facial expressions that in so many words told me how moronic I was.

Peter, on the other hand, would have been a Riflery ace. He didn't only grow up playing Cowboys and Indians, he had the tools and resources to stage bank robberies, war reenactments, and espionage thrillers. He collected pocket knives to forge trails through the uncharted parts of Bemis Woods Forest Preserve. His favorite section of any museum is the armory collection. And he hunts. Like puts on camouflage pants and hunts.

So I live in a house divided by the gun debate.
He's for.
I'm against.
My rationale, and it's good enough for me: I'm scared of them; I've heard too many stories of accidents; And I don't see any reason why I should want or need to own one. The "yah" side of the equation thinks I need an education - that if only I knew a little more about them, I would immediately jump in line to register for a gun owner's license.

While I stringently held my ground, Peter instituted lesson one in my education this weekend.

Lesson 1 - The Goose

For the past eight months, ever since they deemed it warm enough to fly back to Chicagoland, the nearly domesticated River Walk geese have etched out their territory, Sharks verses Jets style, along the River Walk. They literally own certain parts of it, forcing pedestrians to run way off course, less they be maimed by these blood sucking geese. About four months ago they decided to mate with anything that flies, and soon enough they didn't just have a section, they claimed the whole thing.

I f-ing HATE these geese. Every morning, they hiss, spread their wings, run at me, snap at me with their freaky beaks, and try to cross one more human off their most wanted list.

When Peter told me that he was going to go hunting for geese on Saturday, I became entirely present in the conversation. I started thinking that his gun might just come in handy. I asked if he was going to do it on the River Walk, which was apparently an inane question, but wherever he was going to do it, I figured it would be curbing the overpopulated population of the most annoying geese known to man.

Peter spent Saturday morning hunting with friends and Saturday night telling me about it.

His photos were stunning. Straight out of Field and Stream. And they actually made me want to see the world from a hunter's point of view sometime.

The troop shot ten geese and one duck.

And I received four goose breasts. I don't want to know how, but they arrived deplumed, deskinned, and ready to prepare. And I have to admit, I thought, 'Now ... I will have my vengeance. Monday, we will have a roast goose feast.'

Yesterday, I marinated the breasts all day. Then in the evening, butterflied them, tenderized them, and rolled them up with a caraway seasoned apple, pecan stuffing. I roasted them at 350 degrees for about 50 minutes and served them with potatoes and pan gravy.

It was good. Gamey. Hearty. Satisfying. Straight out of the Kings Crown Tavern in Historic Williamsburg good. And I was kind of happy that I had done my part to clean up the River Walk.

I'm still not sold on the NRA and will continue to anticipate debates and lessons (which hopefully will have a squirrel or two in them.) But until it's finally cold enough for those damn geese to fly south and bother the old folks in Florida, I'm telling them to get out of my way because my husband's got a gun!

Lo.

The Brewer's Bock

2011-11-06T18:46:00.001-06:00

Around midnight last night, after manning the most central post at the registration desk at my organization's annual fundraising gala; judging each and every dress that walked by me; winning the self-designed registration throughput competition; handing out awards on stage; and finally, snickering with my co-workers about the creepy guy stroking his wife's back as Richard Marx sang "Right Here Waiting for You," I arrived home. But ... not to our atomic ranch. To our brewery. And not to Peter, the banker. To Peter, the brewer. The garage smelled like the deep fryer, the kitchen like hot sauce. (hmm ... chicken wings). The Boss Cruiser was in the middle of the garage waiting to tell me about all the adventures it had been on today with Peter. The Brew like a Monk, Clone Brews, and Brewer's Bible books were off the shelf and ear marked for tomorrow's chemistry. The yeast was rising. And my little brewer was asleep on the couch, hoppily dreaming.

The opening of the cookie jar, the unavoidable noise of biscotti eating, and the laborious face washing needed to remove the stage make-up shellacked to my face woke him up. Groggily, he told me about his big doppelbock plans tomorrow, and I agreed once again to be his brewnette.

To marry Peter, was to marry a brew master - to inherit a garden lined with hops and a basement full of specialized brewing equipment. It meant that I only had room to shelve two collections of varietal specific wine glasses, because he needed the rest of the shelving for his collections of stout, porter, ale, pilsner, and Belgian glasses. It meant that I needed to include every issue of Zymurgy that ever was in my attempt to categorize and organize the mountainous library of books and periodicals that we have accumulated. It meant that I had to accept shopping dates to the Brewing part of Brew and Grow. It meant that we would always have a home brew or two on tap, and that every other month, we would dedicate a Saturday or Sunday to brewing.

So today. We brewed.

Well, Peter did most of the brewing, while I observed, learned a little more, guessed how many degrees the concoction was at various temperature reading parts of the process, and documented the different steps.

After five hours of brewing, we (he) created the first phase of a doppelbock - a malty, hearty, dark beer that monks used to drink during their Lenten fast as a meal replacement of sorts.

And while he created, I embraced what a brewing day meant for me. Time to hang out with the brewer - to talk and laugh with him. Time to read - and how fitting, I'm reading the Brussels Chapter of Neither Here Nor There by Bill Bryson. Time to go for a run. (Or two.) Time to update the scrap book. And time to plan the warming menus that will accompany the Bock this winter after its finished its fermentation.

The bock is resting now. And so is its brewer. And while I figure out dinner tonight, something that will go with the Belgian Wit that was tapped as I typed, I can confirm once again, that this is the place, both physically and mentally, that makes me happiest.

Lo.

Leftovers. But Cookies for the Cookie Jar

2011-11-04T21:16:00.001-05:00

I've been told that it's just because it's the honeymoon period. I hear side remarks, breathy whispers, and Outlook Messenger dings expressing that it won't last much longer.
Just watch - she won't be cooking like that in two months. Just wait till she has kids - she won't have the time. Just think how much she's spending on groceries every night. Just look at how much easier it is to order in.

Pshaw. For two months, plus the four years that Peter and I were dating before we said, "I Do", I've proved the nay-sayers wrong. I've continued to cook, and usually something new and different, just about every night that we're together. And fine, we still might be in our honeymoon period, but my goal is to never leave it. My goal is to live, at least after hours, during the weekend, and during our vacation days, like we are back in the south of France.

Tonight, I feel like the others got the best of me though. I gave in a bit. Instead of staying on the Champs Elysees part of our honeymoon, I took us into the more humble part of town. Leftover-ville. A place that wasn't on the itinerary - a place that I've had a love / hate relationship with in the past.
(Love: Veal Parmesan, Thanksgiving Day, and Goulash leftovers.
Hate: Meatloaf leftovers. And for some reason, more often than not, the leftover on tap growing up was always meatloaf.)
But a place that I thought we needed to give a shot.

With a refrigerator full of Tupperware from a week's worth of overcooking; with a closer eye on the budget; and with a renewed commitment to not being wasteful, I decided we were going to have innovative instant replay. The Chili from Sunday was, "poof!" turned into beef brisket tacos for Peter; I indulged in the creamy spinach, sausage and pine nut pasta from Tuesday which was zested up with the small pumpkin from our porch roasted to perfection; and the remaining enchilada accoutrement from our celebration of La Dia de los Muertos on Wednesday was our salad.

It worked, and we still toasted the meal. But I felt like I was leading us astray - that if I kept it up I would lead us right out of honeymoon land. So I figured I could make up what I lacked on the stove, in the oven. I took out the flour, sugar, butter, and eggs; almonds, lemons, and cointreau; and whipped up one of my favorite desserts - biscotti. Those heavenly, long, thin logs that Mia's grandma used to send her; that Mia used to store in the kitchen for a snack after practice; that I used to wake up at 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning to not-so secretly steal. Those perfect cookies that are conceivably light enough to have five or six. And the cookies that I was dying to have the perfect recipe for.

I turned to Smitten Kitchen of course - her "hole in one recipe" was all that. And with the added lemon zest, a little more. Five or six. That would be kind.

By 8:30, we had moved out of leftover-ville and into the upgraded Italian influenced patisserie around the corner. Better yet, by 8:30, we had more leftovers, and they filled the cookie jar. So tomorrow, after Peter takes off his costume ...

And I'm relieved of my Vanna White duties, we will be able to come back to our honeymoon phase over a biscotti or two.

Lo.

The Saints, The Souls, and Me

2011-11-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

It is really hard to believe, but I have a planning meeting tonight for Christmas - a little family dinner to discuss the who, what, where and how of the tree trimming, turkey carving, church going, and present opening of 2011. (The first time I will do it away from Pittsburgh.) I also just designed my very first photo card for Christmas; picked out invitations for our rocking retro Christmas Party where I will definitely be making deviled eggs; and downed a cup of Starbucks coffee with the message, 'When we're together snowmen come to life' on it. (My hunch is that they were trying to convey that Starbucks was magical or something, but I'm seriously wondering how that agency pitch made it out of Seattle and into a store near you.) The blood, guts, goblins and ghouls are slowly coming down from the trees, windows, porches, and doors of Naperville, and in their place are going twinkling lights, wreaths, and the G-Rated collection of lawn ornaments. It's officially the holiday season. And like I said, I can't believe it.

I always complain about it, but I hate how our culture says, 'forget about November, forget about Thanksgiving, let's get right into the job creating, economy stimulating, consumer sentiment raising Christmas holiday.' But this year, it's really bothering me. This year has already gone fast enough, why do we need to rush it more?

So I've decided to give November and it's holidays, their due attention. Starting with the first and second of the month - All Saints and All Souls Days. All Saints is an obligatory church going day for us Catholics, and All Souls is more of a suggested thing. (They never seem to want to make you go two days in a row.) And in my own little way, I celebrated both.

On Tuesday evening, after leaving work a little early, I joined a full church of parishioners to celebrate the Saints, to pray for their intercession, and to hope that one day I might be like them. The mass started and ended with St. Edmund's Chapel classics - (down beat) "For All the Saints ..." and "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones." I didn't even need to turn to page 783 in my blue book to belt out the words. I knew verses one through five of both hymns by heart.

The music coordinator missed my all-time favorite hymn though - it wasn't included in the line-up for the evening. I really wanted to sing, "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God." The best. It's all about who the saints were - just regular old folks like us - "one was a doctor, and one was a queen, and one was a shepherdess on the green" - and how we should aspire to be like them too.

But just as I was thinking about that song and its message, the priest delivered a homily that said all that and more. He said that we tend to hold the Saints up like super heroes - like they were born with some super human power. But by seeing them in that way, we are actually diminishing how special they were. He said, that they were just as human as us - and that they just chose God's way over the world's even when it was very difficult. He said that we had the ability to do so too and asked why we chose the way that wasn't right. I rarely commend a priest on his homily when I shake his hand upon leaving church, but this time I did. "Great homily Father."

Yesterday was All Souls Day, and although I didn't make it to mass, I was able to find some quiet time during the day to pray. And to think about the friends and family members who have gone before me. In particular, I prayed for one of the kids who used to belt out "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God" with me - a St. Edmund's classmate that passed away three days ago.

Eric was perhaps the funniest person at that school. Making fun of Ms. Pimentel's cuatro, creating the world's largest paper hat and hanging it from the English room, molding clay into a nacho and cheese bowl instead of "something beautiful," and transforming Katy's school photo into "The Cap'n," were just a small sampling of the things that made me laugh as hard as Meredith makes me laugh today. He was actually my inspiration for becoming the prankster of the Ellis School and enticing Nicole to get involved with me, locking Katy in Latin Class, writing all over Mr. Walker's chalk board and steeling his erasers, and throwing Jessica's clogs in the bin to go to Chinoux Village in Peru. I always thought, I definitely brought a little bit of Eric to Ellis today.

I was very sad to hear about his passing yesterday, and it made me think that more than ever, I need to take each day at a time - to live life to the fullest - and to continue to think about the Saints and trying to live my life as they would have.

So I've decided to postpone thinking about how snowmen will come to life when drinking a Grande Pike, and I'm focusing on this holiday message at the start of the season ... "there's not any reason, no, not the least, why I shouldn't be one too."

Lo.

The Scariest Suburb

2011-10-31T17:53:00.001-05:00

My family was great at Easter. We excelled at Thanksgiving. And Christmas - we owned Christmas, trumping everyone on our 95 percent Jewish block.

Halloween, on the other hand, was never our strong suit. I don't know why, but there was always a bit of a halfhearted approach. Sure, we went to the pumpkin farm, carved pumpkins, and went trick or treated, but in comparison to the rest of the neighborhood and the rest of my classmates, we weren't a die hard Halloween family.

The costume department was probably our ultimate weak spot. My Dad was a-okay going back and forth to the store ten times a year for more Christmas lights, but going to the store for Halloween? Nah - we had an attic full of hidden gems - boxes and boxes of random articles of clothing, accessories, and favors from black tie galas past that that we could turn into something more special than store bought.

My sister was actually pretty good at this game - She went upstairs, and poof became a scarecrow one year. A gypsy another year. And her biggest accomplishment, a Minnie Mouse the year after that.

I on the other was not so convinced by the magic of our boxes labeled, "Halloween." From our collection, I spent three Halloweens trick-or-treating as a Chinese person (whoever thought that was appropriate, I have no idea), many others dressed up as a fairy tap dancer by putting on one of my old dance costumes and adding a wand, and this youthful Halloween below as a kindergartner in her nightgown. Perhaps I was trying to be Wendy Darling.

Around the age when I threw on my Mom's long velvet gown circa 1976 along with a crown, and someone dubbed me "Miss Cellaneous" on my candy mongering walk around Squirrel Hill, I decided to throw in the towel on Halloween. I was never going to be good at it.

When I moved to Naperville, the reality of my Halloween negligence really hit. The folks of Bigtown, USA, don't just put a costume and call it a day, they transform block after block into an all-out fright fest.

Basically, you've got all these people who have moved out to the burbs to be safe - away from the parts of town where the murder rates are just slightly lower than the high school graduation rates. But then on Halloween they stage scenes straight out of American Horror Story, True Blood or CSI. Over the past week, I have run by corpses hanging in trees, skeletons straight out of a biology lab, Jason and Freddy and Chucky (OH MY!), ghosts that look far more like the KKK than cute little Casper, blood, gore, guts, and the happiest of people making minor adjustments to their horrid front lawns.

Yesterday, Roscoe and I did a little stake out and took some photos.

Scary right? Now imagine going for a little jog by this stuff before the sun goes up - frightening! And then imagine the attics where all this stuff is stored when Halloween is over. Heart attack producing 'AHHHs!!!' would be coming from me.

So, I'm out. I will never be as good at Halloween as all the rest of America. But look at this way kids, the money I've saved on costume purchases and lawn ornaments, I've invested in your candy. And that makes me the best house to trick or treat at in Naperville.

Lo.

Devil's Night

2011-10-30T20:00:00.001-05:00

When I was in sixth grade I worked with my Dad to take our little vegetable garden to the next level. After all, I was the Double G, and it was my responsibility to carry on the potato farmer's legacy. I went beyond the Big Boys, beyond the string beans, beyond the herbs, and even beyond the zucchinis. In May, I laid the seeds for a miniature pumpkin patch.

All summer long, while my Dad worked his green thumb magic on the flower beds, I kept careful watch over my vegetables, and specifically over my pumpkins. I watered them every day, I untangled the zucchini vines from their vines as they fought to gain more ground, I talked to them, told them to grow big and strong, and coaxed them to prove the other Shadyside amateur agronomists wrong. Pumpkins could and would grow in the city of Pittsburgh.

By mid-summer, I had watched pumpkin flower after pumpkin flower fail to convert to fruit. I was getting nervous, disappointed, sad that I might not get a pumpkin out of the mass greenery that I had accrued. And then I saw one, a green lump. And under the next leaf over, another green lump. I saw about eight all together, and I knew right then and there that they would turn into proud little pumpkins.

When fall came, a couple had fallen casualty to the wet weather and the slugs, but five were still going strong, ready to be picked, and ready to join the ranks of the big Simmon's Farm pumpkins that were being prepped inside for carving. I gathered them, carefully cutting them from their vines, preserving their gnarled stems. And I might just have named each of them. I seriously think I loved those pumpkins.

Although our Halloween display tended to pale in comparison to the neighbors with spider webs, scarecrows, bushels of hay, and flying ghosts, I couldn't help but think we had the best on the block that year. Because five of the pumpkins were homegrown by me. And not even the first iteration of the puking pumpkin could compete with that.

On October 30, Devil's Night, of 1993, I was really nervous - scared for our display and the little pumpkins that were part of it. The ones that I had spent all summer tending, loving, and nurturing, who were out in the cold, vulnerable, hoping that they wouldn't be targeted by the neighborhood bullies who were notorious for their Devil's Night antics. I figured it would be okay though - after all, there were better displays to disrupt. I gave them each a hug, said they'd be alright, and found a way to fall asleep.

The next morning, when I woke up, all of our pumpkins were gone. The big carved ones, the ceramic one that my parents loved, and each of my little baby pumpkins. I was so, so sad. The saddest sixth grader in school that day. I thought it was so unfair. Why? Why would someone care so little about the person who loved those pumpkins so much?

I got over it. But to this day, there's a little bit of Don't Mess in me on Devil's Night, which is tonight. And in Big Town, USA, where the pranksters outweigh the police units, I'm pretty sure there are some little punks looking to make their troublesome nature known tonight.

At half time of the Steeler game, we carved our pumpkins. A couple of beauties grown at Maynefield Farm, which is down the street from us.

Then we lit them and put them out to tell the Halloween spoilers to bring it on. Because tonight, I'm ready for them. I've got a Don't Mess Antonio Brown dance in me. I've got the Ancho chili pasted, Don't Mess Beef Brisket Chili that I made for dinner in me.

And I've got the Mr. - the one who taught the obnoxious teens who honked at my little Mini yesterday to think twice before messing - next to my Mrs. And I know that lethal combination will keep all the vagrant teens away.

Ain't no one messing with us ... or our pumpkins this Devil's Night.

Lo.

Claire's Cake

2011-10-28T12:03:00.002-05:00

Some families collect jewelry as heirlooms; others collect photos, newspaper clippings and slides; and still others collect letters and the stamps that got them where they needed to go. My family, on the other hand, collects one-liners as family heirlooms - inside jokes and the zealous laughter that corresponds to be passed down from generation to generation.

My brother, sister, and cousins have an innate skill for finding them, pulling them out into the public, and then corralling the giggles. If those giggles turn into thunderous guffaws, then you know you've got a winner.

There are certain breeding grounds for these one-liners - circumstances, where you just know you're going to hear one. Post Christmas dinner, about the time when the 5th magnum of Champagne has offered its final pour, the "kids" go into silent mode as they wait with baited breath for something like:
Yes, we have a lot to carry ...
or,
I'm so glad that you're such good friends and that you play together ...
or better yet,
I hate wet salad ...

Everyone seems to own a one-liner or two (or if you're me, just a word, and there are more like a dozen of them. 'Ka-BOOM!' and 'Mongoloid' will live in infamy.) My Aunt Dee-Dee has a classic. She is responsible for the quote, "Maybe it's because of the reason." It's a one-liner that we put down in the record books around 2003. My cousin was on her first leave from the Army, and my Aunt had hosted a party complete with her signature apple pie for dessert. When we commented on how delicious it was, she said, "Maybe it's because of the reeeeason ..." And left it at that.

I know. Bad story. Not funny. (I know.) Perhaps it was in the delivery of the line; Or the fact that she never actually told us the reason (one can deduce it was for my cousin who hadn't had a real meal in six months); Or maybe we just wanted something to laugh at that evening; But right then and there, after she said it, we were in stitches and repeating, "maybe it's because of the reason," all night long.

Last night, after I cut myself my fifth little sliver as a nightcap to my first big hunk of cake, and this morning when I cut myself a piece for breakfast, I did one of those lone laughs and thought, "maybe it's because of the reason."

Peter said it, not me, it was the best cake yet. And I truly believe, it was because of the reason. It was because of the person who it was lovingly prepared for. Claire.

Last night, Peter and I hosted a little family birthday party for her. As a newbie to the family birthday party throwing, I wanted to make sure it was done with panache, so I planned a retro, The Help inspired feast of buttermilk soaked fried chicken, corn bread, mashed potatoes and gravy, individual spinach souffles, and a cake that would make Aibeleen and Minny proud.

The dinner was great - Well done by all the contributors. But that was the part that Peter, Peggy and I could have done in our sleep.

The cake though, that took a reason - it took the special person it was made for. The kind of person who deserves all the good in life. Who lights up a room the moment she enters it. Who became my lucky 11th follower yesterday (and in turn, the maker of my day.) Who is not only my new sister, but my very good friend. And of course, who is the mother of this adorable bundle of joy.

Claire's cake started on Wednesday evening when I made the almond layers in between the time I set the jambalaya on simmer and I screwed up the white rice, which made for a 75% edible Wednesday night dinner. I was supposed to make two layers, but I made three instead. Claire deserved three. I let them cool, wrapped them up, and refrigerated them overnight. Then yesterday morning, before the sun's (and Peter's) alarm went off, I made the lemon icing, toasted the almonds, stacked it up, and topped it with powdered sugar.

Still sleepy-eyed, I posted a photo of it on Facebook, set in the refrigerator to chill, and prayed that it would taste as good as it looked.

It did. 6 times over and one to grow on this morning. And I gave a silent nod to Aunt Dee for being so spot on. There is only one reason why this cake turned out so well, and that is Claire. I've made everyday cakes, even celebration cakes, but my Claire Cake, that was the winner.

Happy 29th #11.

Lo.

David Lebovitz' almond layer cake with lemon frosting. I followed the recipe exactly, but added another layer (and some more icing.) Oh, and I didn't add a layer of raspberry preserves.I've never liked jelly in cake.

The Cheater

2011-10-26T13:06:00.003-05:00

In fifth grade I cheated. I had figured out answers to the first, second and third fill-in-the-blanks. But when I got to fourth, I was stumped. Perhaps, had I read the book I'd have known what Danny's favorite possession was. But as a non-reader, I was solely dependent on class discussion. And we so didn't discuss that minute detail in class.

By the fifth grade, I had actually gotten rather good at taking Reading tests without actually having done any reading. The multiple choice answers were easily deduced; the essays were my bread and butter, mostly because I could always find one little thing we had talked about in class and massage it into an essay about me, which was lauded for its creativity; but the fill in the blanks - ugh, they were tough, and they seemed to multiply in number with every advancing grade level.

With three minutes until the end of class, and with half of my classmates out the door on their way to lunch, I still didn't have an answer for number four. And my stomach was growling. I raised my eyes as if conveying a pensive expression, and then despite my best intentions, my right eye drifted down and then over to Paul B.'s test. Aha! I got it.

Witch

Danny's favorite possession was a ... witch. That makes total sense. Done. Handed it in. Cold chicken patty sandwich, here I come.

The next day when we got our tests back, I cautiously turned it over, hoping that I had miraculously stumbled upon the kind of perfect A+ paper that my sister always received. Instead I revealed that my usual B had turned into a B-/C+. What did that even mean? It meant that Mrs. Harbist was harder than the other Reading teachers I guess. She apparently didn't like my essays. "Use more examples from the novel." Great. Her multiple choices were riddled with double negatives. And her fill in the blanks ... I mean seriously, who reads each line that carefully? I looked at my stolen answer, which was crossed out in red, and glaringly replaced with the word, watch.
Oh.
That actually makes a lot more sense. Danny's favorite possession was a watch. I guess that's why my B- was teetering on the verge of a C+. Mrs. Harbist knew I cheated.

Among my family members, I was labeled as the non-reader. And I literally, made it through second to seventh grade without reading an assigned book for school. I could read perfectly well. In fact, I was always good at reading aloud in class. But I just chose not to. Instead, I paid close attention to class discussions so I could pull out nuggets for the test, but to this day I only have a foggy idea what Number the Stars, Hatchet, Red Badge of Courage, and Island of the Blue Dolphin are about. I did read some American Girl Collection books, mostly so I could play with my Molly doll more effectively. And I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in fourth grade. But besides that, my Book It numbers were completely fabricated. (I guess that would count as the other time I cheated - there was a personal pan pizza on the line, you would have done the same.)

My standardized test scores reflected my voluntary illiteracy too. I was always 98th or 99th percentile in Math, but in English and Reading Compression, I was in the mid 70s - An embarrassing low stat at St. Edmund's and in my family.

I attribute my literary turn around to The Giver. It was the last book that we were assigned in the seventh grade, and I decided to give it a chance. I ended up finishing it in two days - I loved it and wanted to talk about it. My teacher was shocked at my sudden desire to answer every question in class. And I was shocked by how exciting it was to be the go-to respondent. It ignited a spark and in eighth grade I read all the books. Throughout high school I couldn't put the books down. And in college, I switched into a major where all you did was read and write. By the time I applied for MBA school, my test scores had completely shifted. The verbal section trumped the math section, which actually didn't look so good to the right thinking admissions committee, and which made me use my words to negotiate not taking the test again.

Now, as someone who calls reading and writing her profession, it is really hard to believe that the girl who cheated on her Reading test was me. (It's also really hard to believe that at one time I was acing advanced Calculus tests, but that's another story.)

Yesterday, I discovered another past persona that was equally hard to recognize - Lo. I realized that she had changed a lot over the past three years, and that the "About Lo" page on this blog was a little scary. So, delete, delete, delete. Out went the pragmatic dater. Out went the theory of finding a relationship through optimizing your marketing mix. Out went the confidently, clueless single girl who wanted to use the jargon she learned in business school in a more creative way. In came me. I replaced the old Lo with the girl behind the computer.

Who loves cooking, running and traveling. Who keeps her family and friends close and invites them into her stories. Who loves remembering when. Who loves playing all the different roles that life demands of her. Who writes about what she knows now. And who loves being able to say that she is no longer a single girl - she is married. And will never be a cheater.
Lo.

Winning

2011-10-23T19:09:00.003-05:00

Earlier this year, Charlie Sheen lost big. Catastrophically, disastrously, embarrassingly big. However, in outlandish interview after outlandish interview he claimed that he was in fact, winning - that he just had a different definition of the word than the studio execs. We all made fun of him, and said he had gone crazy. But fresh after another Notre Dame loss, I'm thinking perhaps Charlie did know a thing of two. Maybe there was something to his redefinition. After all, I had a winning Saturday despite witnessing a humiliating loss. I do believe us Domers have more in common with Charlie than we thought.

Winning to ND Nation obviously does not mean beating USC under the lights, during the first night game since 1990 ... that would be too easy, too contrite for us enlightened football fans. Instead, we have to define winning in other terms.

For my cousin Tom, winning meant that his smoked ribs were given the seal and siege of approval by Peter.

For Peter, it should have been said ribs, but apparently it was the Song Girls.

(Oh there were more pictures ...)
For my friend Keith, it was the potential of winning a multi-stakeholder bet, gaining a pair of sweet receiver gloves, and coming away from the weekend with MBA bragging rights.

For my friend Rhiannon, it was actually winning that bet.

And for my friend Carrie, it was knowing that she just plain won.

For my brother and sister-in-law it was experiencing a beautiful Notre Dame weekend from a fresh set of eyes.

And for Lyla, it was being the cutest little center of attention ever.

For my sister, it was telling the burly guy next to her to kindly remove his hand from her butt when he began encroaching on her space and comfort zone.
For my parents it was having everyone together for a weekend at the Dondo and having nothing to do but hang out with their family all Saturday morning and afternoon.

For me, it was sitting on the field (I mean, we were on the grass) next to my big sister. And enjoying the game from start to finish. Yes, I was there for the entire game. I heard every song the band played, I saw the Irish run out of the tunnel and onto the field, I did the synchronized hand motion during the 1812 overture, I shouted out the "ARE" of "WE ARE ND," and I left the stadium with all the other disappointed Domers. I hadn't done that since high school probably. And I took it as a personal win.

For the University, winning was the cash cow kind of day that they produced. A day that will hopefully enable the marketing whizzes employed by the University to invest in a couple new pump-up songs other than the first three lines of Crazy Train next year; or a jumbo tron so we can relive the inane, catastrophic mistakes that the team continues to produce; or perhaps rally towels that aren't the same color as the night sky; or better yet, how about a well-coached, well-disciplined, swaggering team, that will finally perform, convert and win.

In the third quarter, when Notre Dame was on the 1 yard line, about to tie up the game, and then fumbled, turned the ball over, and watched USC run it back for a touch down, I remembered exactly why I don't make it through many games anymore. They are downright depressing. After that mistake, and after the compounding ones that followed, I started looking into the crowd more than onto the field. I looked at all the people who had built this weekend up for weeks. I looked at the fathers out there teaching their kids about the legacy of Irish Football, and how this was the year they were going to turn it around. I looked at all the mothers watching their boys get beat up again by USC. And I watched all the students starting to sober up, come down from their high, and lose hope that they will get to lift up the person next to them to do push ups. I watched the crowd's winning air disappear as they realized their golden bubble had popped.

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, I was a young, but HUGE Irish fan, and I believed that South Bend Saturdays during the Fall had one tag attached to them, and that was winning. The 21st century of Irish football has reshaped that tag. We all think we're winners still - we dress like, walk like it, tailgate like it, and spend money like it. The only problem is, everyone outside of the Dome, calls our bluff week after week. And exposes us. And makes us appear a lot more like Charlie than we'd like.

I don't have an answer, and I'm no football analyst, I'll leave that up to my brother's comment. But I just hope that someday, when I take my kids to campus, the highlight won't be their trip to the bookstore so they can buy a Notre Dame Fencing shirt, it'll be a relevant Irish win.

While I continue to define a winning Saturday in South Bend by the weather, my outfit, the tailgating scene, and the company I keep, winning on Sundays is still exactly what it should be.

Stuffed cabbage and a big Steelers win.

Lo.

(I adapted Smitten Kitchen's stuffed cabbage recipe in an attempt to remember how my Grandma made hers. The combination worked though and it tasted just as I remembered it.)

The S.

2011-10-20T10:15:00.001-05:00

At exactly 5:03 PM on Monday, I was standing at the northernmost end of 3 North, waiting for the elevator, anticipating that sweet ding that officially sounds the end of Monday. If I had timed it right, which I usually do, I would have come away with a solo exodus. Free to get in, rapidly push the 'door close' button, and sail down to P2 where my Mini and I would make a clean get away.

On Monday though, I was not so lucky, I was one of six 3 North elevator riders. Five of which, including myself, had left their cubes and thrown their mute buttons on. They were only separated by an elevator ride from being done for the day, and they weren't about to start it up again. The sixth person though, wanted to talk. And he wanted to talk to me.
"Hiya .... so ... what are you doing with all your spare time now?"
(Oh crap, he's talking to me. Mute button off.) "Um ... what spare time? What do you mean?"
"Well, now that your wedding is over and now that the marathon is done, don't you have a lot more time? What are you doing with it?"
"Oh ... um ... that time ... I guess nothing really ... (Wrong answer. I couldn't think of anything else to say though. Do people really have spare time contingency plans? I turned my mute button back on.)"

After making the great escape, I spent the car ride home thinking about the free time I've in theory gained since saying "I do" and running around Chicago for 3 hours and 47 minutes. Last week I was traveling, no spare time there. This week, I've got a million things to do at work. What spare time?!

Around 8:30 on Monday night, then on Tuesday morning, and Tuesday night, and then on Wednesday I figured it out. Oh ... that spare time. I literally think I caught myself twiddling my thumbs at 8:37 last night. I don't have a specific, get er done purpose right now, and truth be told, I feel like I have had an excess of time over the past three days. So to your point, elevator talker ... here's what I've done with it ...I picked out the breed of dog that I want to get.

An American Fox Hound. They are really good at exercise. We are going to run marathons together.

I looked at the wedding and honeymoon pictures again. (And again ... and again.)

High five.

I cooked. And baked. And ate. And kept that Frenchie fifteen firmly glued to my waistline.

Pork chops, applesauce and mashed potatoes were the highlight of Tuesday night

I went to bed early. And then earlier. And then earliest.
And then ... last night when I literally found myself twiddling my thumbs, I decided to do a little research. An experiment more or less. I decided to use my Facebook profile as a focus group of sorts, something we've been doing more at work since we don't have the budget to run a real one. I wanted to gauge the reaction of my new, married name. So as of 8:45 or so last night, I dropped the F. and put on the S. Which, I must say, was a little difficult. Mostly, because there is a lot in that F.

In Kindergarten, there were two other girls with the same name as me. In Nursery and Pre-K, I was the one and only. Writing my first name on my show-and-tell item, smock or bag lunch was sufficient. But in Kindergarten, as I was introduced to a W. and an L., and I became the F. The added initial stuck and defined me throughout grade school.

It made me different than the other Ls. W. was the shy one. L. could stand up to the boys. And I was the loud, dancing, dramatic one, with a slight double chin. Being an F. also put me up front in all lines - to process into Chapel, to get my pizza on Pizza Day, to exit the school in the event there was a fire. The F. did lead to some name calling, but mostly everyone liked L.F. She was fun, unabashed, and hosted one amazing Admore roller rink birthday party.

I started to think about the other stuff that defined L.F.
She was a little scared of the big slide at Spring Lake.

She didn't stop at three cookies, she always negotiated her way to four. And turned to the hidden Oreos under her bed for five and six.
She was a dancer, a singer, and an actress, and she tended to steel center stage every time the camcorder came out.
She played make-believe in the bushes on Bartlett Street.
She was a St. Edmund's girl who proudly belted out the School Hymn at Chapel.
She was an Ellisian who knew she could be an actress and an all-american athlete.

She was an All Big East lacrosse player at Notre Dame.

She managed a restaurant.Got really tired. And then decided to change careers with an MBA school pivot point.
L.F. converted her crush.

That guy with the floppy hair.

She started this blog. She finally got the kind of job she had always wanted. She sits on 3N. She ran two marathons. She plays the role of Vanna White at company awards ceremonies. She got engaged. And then she became part of a Mr. and Mrs. equation, where she is supposed to subtract the F.

In a way, and as one of my focus group respondents observed, when I get officially get rid of the F. I will be "a different person." Which is a little hard for me. There is a lot of history, brand equity, and character in the F. But I also know that being an S., despite the fact that our kids will be near the end of the line at school, is huge. As Peter said, it makes us one, which is what marriage is all about. And like any other successful merger, you need to bring together the best of both parties and figure out a name that will convey the "new and improved" of the company to its customers. And that's exactly what my new name will say.

After the positive reaction I got on Facebook last night, and with the time that I've recently collected, I'm determined to open up the daunting name-changing paper work and suffer through it. I will be dropping the F., keeping my middle name, Louise, and adding an S.

And to alleviate any confusion for my former classmates.I'm no longer L.F, I'm L.S. She's the same old quirky girl, just with a little "new and improved" - "off the market" - "merger complete" on the end.

Lo.

63

2011-10-16T19:05:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, Peter jokes that I measure my life in mileage and blog entries. He claims that I believe a good day is putting more than eight miles on my feet and publishing 300-500 words about the who, what, when, where and why people care of my day. And that I believe a bad day significantly lacks in steps and content.

There is a slightly negative undertone to Peter's chide, challenging and pressuring me to think outside my scoring system. And it leads me to bite back against the claim, denying that I really judge my days based on footwork and fodder.
That is SO not true!
But ... in thinking more about two of my favorite hobbies, two things that do hold the trump card of prioritization in my day, and two things that Peter uses to label me, I'm starting to think there isn't shame in living my life by them. Because I don't only quantify the mileage that I run, I measure the slower paced steps of my walks and strolls. I don't only measure the times that I hit publish, I measure the quality of the senses and sentiments that shape the stories I write the next day. When I assess life, I do it by the steps that I take and the memories that I make. That's not so wrong is it?

For instance, yesterday ranked as an outstanding day. It had the makings of stardom. It was filled with outstanding steps and outstanding stories. And I think Peter would completely agree.

Around noon, I changed out of my sneakers and into my Kate Spade's, a pair of shoes that is just about six weeks old, the same age as the marriage of Peter and I. But within their relatively short lifespan they've been present and privy to a lot of amazing sights: the artisan tile work of Sacred Heart Church on the night that we rehearsed our "I dos," the Casino floor in Monte Carlo, the chi chi beach dining scene in Antibes, and the old cobblestone streets of Saint Germain des Pres in Paris. They have helped shape wonderful memories over the past month, but they hadn't been out of their box since our honeymoon. So I knew we were both in need of the high-healed, momentous mileage they tend to create.

I first took them for a walk down the aisle of Saint Bernard's Church in Mount Lebanon - a walk that brought back many memories of sleepovers at the Cumpstons, Father Walt homilies, and the cousins' reception of the sacraments followed by a run down the hill to Aunt Dee's house for a change of clothes, play time, christening chicken, and one of Aunt Joyce's beautiful, homemade, frosting-covered cakes. Yesterday at Saint Bernard's we saw the marriage of two of our good friends, Greg and Juliette - two of the happiest people that we know. It was beautiful (and the camera would have captured said beauty better than my iPhone had Peter remembered it.)

Then we pushed the pedal on my Dad's Beemer and drove a couple miles down the road to attend another celebration. A private, petite 63rd wedding anniversary party. But because my shoes were so new, they didn't quite understand how big this moment was. They had missed the other anniversary parties, they had just met my Grandpa, and they needed a little education about parties past and just how special my Grandparents are to me.

Well ... there was the 40th anniversary party at this little steakhouse in the South Hills. We had the place to ourselves for the night - to scream "YEAH!" as loud as possible, to relive the first cake cutting, to clink our glasses and ask for a kiss, and to have enough room to fit the growing family into one picture.

Then there was the 50th. I remember the shoes I wore - the original Steve Madden clunkers that every girl had to have. Aunt Joyce's cake got grander, the cake cutting got more ceremonial, the family got bigger, and "how can we forget ..." the speeches got longer.

Then there was the 60th ... Peter made it to that one. The "YEAH'S!" got louder, aunt Joyce made the best cake ever, Grandma looked as beautiful as she did on her wedding day, and I upgraded my shoes to Italian stilettos.

I then told my shoes about all the walks my Grandma and Grandpa had been on together - all the mileage they had covered and how many memories came from it. I told them about one very special walk that my Grandpa included in his note to me on my wedding day. He wrote, "The first time I held grandma in my arms and kissed her was in the alley way leading to her house. That feeling and warmth stays within me to this day and never leaves." I told them that I had a similar feeling of warmth and happiness the moment that I laid eyes on Peter. And that I pray and hope that Peter and I will continue to feel the same kind of love that my grandparents feel today, 63 years from now.

The little celebration we had at Sunrise was quieter than past parties, but it didn't lack in sweetness. There were hugs and squeezes, Croatian toasts, photos to look through, floral arrangements, and reflections on cookie trays, cakes and zucchini breads past.

After a teary end to the anniversary party, we pushed the pedal on to Nevillewood, the dance floor, and the wedding reception of the new Mr. and Mrs. Leutch. Outstanding party.

And although Aunt Joyce didn't make it, the cake was outstanding too.

At the end of the day I probably had more than 15 miles of memories on my feet and hundreds of images and sentiments in my mind that I could easily put to paper. At the end of the day, I confirmed my positioning too, that seeing the world through steps and stories isn't so bad, and I'm glad that I'm writing those stories down two or three times a week. Because there may come a day when I don't remember, and I'll want my groom to read these stories to me, and help me always feel the warmth, the laughter, and the love that I know my Grandma still feels to this day.

Lo.

A Big Breakfast

2011-10-13T05:51:00.001-05:00

My family tends to categorize, bucket and label. We do it to others, but we mostly do it to ourselves. We each have been labeled over the years with an exhaustive list of qualifiers that has helped shape our personal brands (whether we want them to or not.) And given the fact that 60% of the family are lawyers, the label sticks until proven not guilty. We may want to deny our tags or make a case against them, but in the end, the judge overturns our pleas, and we are forever pinned.

Even though we, as a very type A family, are very similar our labels tend to make an argument for our contrasting nature - how different each of us are.

One of us was never much of a reader.
One of us is a bookworm.
One of us just reads the Sports Section.
One of us should be the default choice when taking a child shopping.
One of us should be the default choice when taking a child to a lecture.
One of us should be the default choice when taking a child to a sporting event.
(If there's a musical or flower show involved, all the kids are going.)
One of us gets crabby when she's tired.
One of us gets crabby when he's hungry.
One of us gets crabby (and emotional) just because.
One of us is a night owl.
One of us has to go to bed at 9 PM every night.
And one of us likes to sleep in late on the weekends and have big breakfasts.

The labels I've been pinned with are just about 100% true, especially the one about turning into a pumpkin at 9 o'clock every night. It was actually very difficult convincing my Dad that I would stay up until midnight to hear the last song at our wedding. The brand that has been placed on me is the result of (very) repetitive behaviors that I've come to find comfort in, and I'm okay with it.

Several of my sister's labels though aren't so much the sum of many occurrences, rather they are the unfortunate circumstance of my Mom calling her house around 7 AM on a Saturday when she was still sleeping, and my Mom calling her house when she was about to sit down to pancakes, eggs and bacon on a Sunday morning. From that moment on, my sister was known for "sleeping in late and eating big big breakfasts."

While this relaxing behavior is very typical in most households, it is actually an aberration in my go-getter, fiber-eating family, and is positioned as a negative - like there is something being missed by pushing the snooze button a little longer on a Saturday and enjoying something other than Bran Flakes in the morning.

While I'm in the rise and shine and eat a granola bar camp, all I could think about this week, was sleeping in and having a big breakfast. I'm still sick and every morning, all I want to do is stay in bed, get out of it when I feel like it, and mosey straight over to a dining room table dressed with waffles, and syrup, and smoked salmon, and quiche, and bacon, and mimosas.

My desire for a sleep-in big breakfast only compounded when I saw the Irish bacon from our butchering class thawing out in the fridge on Monday. And then my Saveur Newsletter highlighting Shopsin's pumpkin pancakes on Tuesday morning. And then the dozen eggs started calling out, "use us, use us!" on Tuesday night. So I said, fine, I was going to do it.
Peter, we're having breakfast for dinner.

Now ... talk about labels. This was an occasional go-to meal solution for my Dad. And as kids, we loved it. My mom on the other hand, was not a fan. In fact, I can recall several times when she would call to say that she was going to leave the office in five minutes and then ask what was for dinner.
Breakfast.
Oh ... I think I'm going to work late tonight.
Mom hates breakfast for dinner!

But it was an option that Peter and I hadn't tried yet. So ... we cut and sizzled the bacon, made the pumpkin pancakes from the newsletter, and made my new favorite side dish, David Lebovitz' spinach cake, which is like a spinach souffle / crustless quiche thing. It is absolutely amazing.

In all, it was a good dinner. But I can see why my Mom didn't necessarily love the concept. Peter ate most of the bacon before we even sat down. The presentation on our plates wasn't as pretty as usual. It's a pain to clean up sticky syrup when you just want to go to bed. And there was a much more casual, haphazard feel at the dinner table. I think big breakfasts are best right around the time my sister schedules them in.

So ... I'm thinking, Saturday is only two days away, and without a long run to do, I'm going to break out of my mold, sleep in, make a HUGE breakfast, and invite my sister over.

Lo.

The Chicago Marathon, The Captain, and Me on Monday

2011-10-10T20:25:00.002-05:00

I'm going to preclude this blog entry by saying it's Monday - the day after my second 26.2 mile run through the once again blazing hot, sunny streets of Chicago. I've got an ice pack on my left knee. There is a weird weezing sound piping out my still stuffed up respiratory system. My second toes are pulsing with pain and ready to lose their nails. The walk, or should I say waddle, down the Mendoza staircase and into Giovanni A today wasn't quite as graceful as I remember it to during my days as a business student. The rubbing and punching of my quads throughout our case presentation was probably not the best look for a wanna be astute, composed visiting educator. And those last 6 miles are still fresh, very fresh, in my mind.

Tonight, I'm saying it. I will never run a marathon again.

Tomorrow, I'll deny that statement. (That's why I wrote it this year.)

Somewhere in between now and then, I'll rationalize the negatives away. It wasn't that bad. What pain? There was never really a toenail there to begin with. I can do better. I can shave off seven minutes and qualify for Boston. (Despite my inside cold and the outside heat, it kills me that I didn't.) AND how am I going to help recruit Team RMHC 2012 without being an active, running member of it?

In the meantime, I'll reminisce about where I've been in the past 48 hours with pictures.

I trained, and ate, and carbo loaded right - complete with pumpkin bread pudding on Friday night.

I embraced the game day atmosphere that lit up Chicago

I didn't get stressed out that I wasn't winning. I let the Kenyans make their magic.

I ran for the right reason - for Ronald McDonald House Charities.

I had THE most amazing fans at miles 3, 6, 14, 15, 17, 22, and 25. And I ran over to thank them.

... and shock them with my sweaty stench.

I loved being at the post tent party and took advantage of all the athlete services.

And I got another photo with Ronald.

But ... because I feel like I don't have that first timers glow - that fresh perspective on a Marathon that made what I wrote last year so fun, I thought I would turn the page over to a guest blogger with a better story. I wanted one of my fellow Team RMHC teammates to tell her story. She is not only a teammate though, she is my cousin, my friend, my bridesmaid, one of my heroes and one of my inspirations. A woman who never ceases to totally amaze me. She is Captain Meghan Cumpston.

That's her. (From her shirt, you can see she's running for the right reason too.)

And that's her. Running like a champ.

And these are the hysterical words describing her 26.2 mile tour that she wrote to me this morning. I just loved them, and I had to share.

Mile 1: This isn't too bad! Nice, slow pace...wow, Chicago has nice architecture. I should definitely come back sometime when there isn't a marathon involved. Dear Garmin, you need to get your sh*t together, I know that I'm not running a 6:25 pace right now...nothing convinces my watch otherwise.

Mile 4: A bit less than 1/6 of the way there! Oh wait...that actually doesn't make me feel better. Darn. What does make me feel better? The guy holding a sign that says "You are all great at exercise." Garmin has settled down for the long haul. I high-five people, smiling. I am enjoying myself, it's a beautiful day.

Mile 6: Hmm, I've had to pee since this thing started. But I hate Port-a-Potties. And the lines. And stopping during a long run. Wait, I know...if I have to pee, then obviously I can't be dehydrated. I'll use this as a gauge to see if I need to drink more fluids. Yes, the marathon has allowed me to add "amateur doctor" to my resume.

Miles 8-9: Rihanna and Eminem songs were good choices (pats self on back for the obviously brilliant running playlist.) Oh, a good T-shirt: "Please God, let someone be behind me to read this"...written on the back. I snicker, then remind myself not to waste energy on laughing, especially since I'm behind her. Reading it.

Mile 13.1: Halfway! Just saw Peter and Uncle Don. Also just saw a really heavy girl pass me...WTF? I know I didn't train much, but how is she moving THAT much faster than me? Remind myself what Charles wrote in one of his emails: "Run your own race." Solid advice that I continue to repeat to myself lest my competitive side get the best of me, causing me to go down in flames circa mile 17.

Mile 14: Started editing my snarky comments about other runners when I realize they might be thinking that about me as I pass them. Oops. See a girl wearing a shirt that says "PLEASE, Girl. My mascara runs faster than you." Hmm, kind of mean, but I can appreciate the Nike-brand humor.

Mile 16: Well, this is the farthest I've ever run. See a sign: "The last ten miles is all downhill." Not encouraging. At all. Also, where am I? The blacktop roads seem to radiate heat...probably because they are, in fact, radiating heat. Remind myself that Alexander the Great created an empire by making his troops put one foot in front of the other, all the way to India. Later, I will realize what an incoherent thought that is. I press on.

Mile 19: Starting to slow down. I tell myself just to make it to Mile 20, then I can walk. I make it to mile 20, and, frightened of how much I will slow down, keep running.

Mile 21: Feel genuinely sorry for myself...as in having the verbatim thought "I feel sorry for myself." Remind myself that I have no one to blame for this but myself. Still, I start walking...like a soccer mom power walk. Still maintaining a 13:30 mile.

Mile 23: What is wrong with my feet? Is it possible for the entire bottom to burn off while cramping? And why does it feel like there is some sort of weird bubble coming out of my knee? I start wondering if the marathon will literally cause my body to fall apart. I am NOT quitting with only 3 miles to go.

Mile 24.2: All I have left is the equivalent of an Army PT test. I've done those hundreds of times. Must finish!

Mile 25: I try to tell people along the edge of the route that it's my first marathon and they should cheer for me. Unfortunately, my voice now resembles some sort of braying donkey. While my message is probably not effective, I do get a few cheers.

Mile 26: WHERE IS THE FINISH LINE? Oh...it's up that hill. Sweet. I'm back to running, if only to get it over with faster.

Mile 26.2: So. Freakin'. Happy. Borderline emotional when they give me my medal. I scamper away from the people with the odd foil warmer things. It's 82 degrees out, I'm plenty warm, thanks. Briefly consider hugging the girl who is handing out ice cold towels, but realize I'm coated in a mixture of Gatorade, water, sweat, and Chicago hose water. I decide she would not appreciate it, and try to make my way to Charity Village.

Unfortunately I never made it quite that far, because of my hotel check out time--a shame, cause I hear I missed a great party. Lesson learned: When running a marathon, stay the night after the marathon too.

Here's what I'm thinking - she didn't get a chance to go the pasta dinner party before the race OR the tent extravaganza after the race. I think we BOTH might have to run it again next year, and perhaps recruit two more? Takers?

Lo.

Team Lo vs. The Cold Sore

2011-10-06T19:53:00.001-05:00

You know the kind of days or the kind of the weeks (or the kind of races) when everything seems to click? And fall into place? And all the stars align? And everything turns out just the way you want it to?

One month ago that happened. Dress fit. Skin cleared up a bit. Nails didn't look massacred. Dance moves abounded. Greatest party ever happened. Wedding bliss ensued. I was in Heaven.

Today. At present. That is not so much happening. In fact, the stars aren't just unaligned, they aren't showing. I have completely failed to feel their magic shine down on me this week. And I'm really, really dreading the course I'm supposed to be on in two days.

Last year Team Lo versus the Chicago Marathon was bad. Real bad. You can reminisce with me if you would like. This year was going to be different though. I signed up with a vengeance - to beat that course and the misery that I felt as I crossed the Finish Line. I trained with a renewed vigor, better running form, more water pumping through my system, and a theory backed by the book Born to Run about my innate purpose in life - waking up every morning and running hard so I would never be the prey. My sophomore marathon season was going to be amazing. I was going to run this sucker like I never thought I could.

And now I'm on the couch. Tired. Achy. Stuffy. Without an appetite. (But still having a glass of wine.) And annoyed at the cold sore on my mouth and the pain in my left foot.

Here's what I have to say.
What the F?
I haven't been sick in literally two and a half years. Two and a half years!
I haven't been injured at all during my running career.
I never get cold sores.
And who ever heard of over-hydrating?! I seriously just got an alert message on my phone from the Chicago Marathon saying that the weather on Sunday fell into the "yellow" range and I should be careful not to over-hydrate. I'm really hoping the five liters of water I drank today is not considered above and beyond the call of duty.

With all that said, and with my left foot going numb from the ice pack glued on it, I know I will finish on Sunday. And I know I will finish with a smile on my face. And accepting of the heat cape (although I'm still really, really confused why a hot, stinky runner would need to keep warm on a 75 degree day.) And proud of what I have done over the past two years.

Why? Because I'm not running this race for me. I'm running it for Mark Johnston and his son Luke. (watch this video - you'll get it.)

I'm running for Max and his mom, Liz.

I'm running for Jena and the whole Crawford family.

I'm running for children and families that are facing challenges far worse than my cold sore or my 26.2 mile bum-footed trek through Chicago. Children who are facing marathons of their own every day as they battle illness and injury. But children who are doing it equipped with the best medicine of all, their families, who are able to stay close by to them thanks to a network of Ronald McDonald Houses around the world.

On Sunday, I couldn't imagine running the marathon without my family there to cheer for me, support me, give me a drink and some power in the form of a bar, and hug me at the end despite my stench. Their presence will help me fight till the end.

What I really couldn't imagine though is being in the hospital without my family by my side. I'm running to help make sure that sick kids will always have their families by their side when they need it most.

Help me, help children find strength to get through the tough times by giving the gift of family today.

Here's to the champagne that will be popped on Sunday at 11:30 AM - my estimated time of arrival at the RMHC tent.

Lo.

Kiss and Make-Up

2011-10-05T06:47:00.001-05:00

Just about everyone and everything that walks, talks, sings, dances, sells, buys, cooks, cleans, or just exists has a Facebook page. Some of them I call my friends. One of them I'm "married to," although he's been inactive for about two years. And some of them I've "liked," an action that has become the key to admittance into some more candid brand communities.

One of the more recent communities that I've joined is The Ellis School. Yes, my itty-bitty high school alma mater has a Facebook page. And yesterday, I got a glimpse not only inside the familiar hallways, but down into the underbelly of the school - the series of stuffy dressing, costume, and make-up rooms that only the elite Ellis thespians have seen.

I saw the mirrors, lights, and clutter. I saw the girls applying their make-up, giving themselves one last look in the mirror for confidence, and then ascending from the dungeoness bowels of the school. I was immediately transported back. Back to picking out my costume, balking at how unflattering it was, snickering in the girls dressing room as the brave boy who decided to make the trek over from Central Catholic to act with us ladies emerged in his ridiculous costume, and back to cluelessly trying to apply stage make-up to my face.

Back in grade-school Mrs. Hunter did our make-up. She simply powdered our oily adolescent noses and slapped some red lip stick on our lips. That did the trick. In high school, Mr. Altman demanded more. Rosier cheeks, fuller lips, bigger eyes, a more matte face, and a nose that didn't look quite so pug-like. There were tricks you could do with make-up apparently, and I didn't know any of them.

With bit roles freshman year, I slid under the radar with powder and lipstick. But sophomore year, when I got the lead role, the tap teacher (talk about a dream come true), in the winter play, Mavis Turner Tappers, I was told that I looked too young - that I needed to put on some make-up. So I went down to the dressing room and pulled out my Mom's sample sale Clinique eye-shadow. It was blue and came with a little application wand. I looked in the mirror, dipped the stick in the blue powder, closed one eye and pressed a band of color over it, and then did the same thing to the other eye. I looked in the mirror again. Bad. Fail.

Molly, can you help me please.
Molly was a friend who went down into the costume room on a daily basis just to spice up her Ellis uniform. She was also good at make-up. And good at pretty. I knew she would come to my rescue.
What are you doing? Blend. You have to blend. Here, let me help.

She brought over her make-up bag for reinforcements and went to work. Showing me as she went along how to do this in the future. Wow. That's what it's supposed to look like. Wow. I look a lot better. I had never learned how to put on make-up. My Mom never wore very much - just a little bit of rouge and lipstick, and she never encouraged us to wear much either. So I embraced the au naturale look through high school and college.

Around the age when the need to where make-up to look more mature meets the age when you need make-up to look a little younger, I started wearing it. I remembered the lesson that Molly gave me. I started looking at the Beauty sections of magazines to learn tricks of the trade. I started collecting eye shadows, and brushes, and an array of neutral palettes to reshape the contours of my face. Each day I played around with varying levels of success and went out the door with a spectrum of different looks ranging from Ozzie Ozborne to Raggedy Anne.

To this day I'm still learning. In fact, when I was getting dressed for our Rehearsal Dinner about a month ago, my friend Anne grabbed the blush out of my hand and asked, "what are you doing?!.. It goes here, not there." Lesson noted. But I'm at a point when I know how to blend, when I know what makes my eyes pop, and when enough is enough.

My Aunt Amy told me once that no matter how busy my Grandma's day was - how many babies had spit up on her, how many meatballs she been cleaned up from the floor, how many bathrooms she had scrubbed, how many spankings she had given, and how tired she was, she would always put on a little make-up at the end of the day and have a good dinner on the table by the time my Grandpa came home. I liked that vision. But more than that, I'm taking it as a marriage best practice.

Some days I give up on make-up during the work day. Sitting at my cube, rubbing my forehead and eyes throughout the day to get the headaches out is not conducive to mascara and eye-liner. But when I get home, I always wash my face and put on the amount of make-up that I now know how to apply. Enough to look fresh as a daisy for my husband. And I start making dinner. It helps me to disconnect from the day, and bring the honey, I'm home, back to Naperville.

I'm new at this, but I think putting your best face forward in marriage everyday helps, even if all you're applying is your smile. It also helps to start and end each day with a kiss. And luckily that came more naturally to me than putting on lipstick.

Lo.

The Girl Who Came to Dinner

2011-10-01T19:05:00.001-05:00

I went to a very small grade school. A school so small that it only offered one sport for girls and one sport for boys each trimester because of the inability to field more than two teams. A school so small that they took away the spring option in order to cast the annual school play. And a school so small that everyone always made the team, and there was always room for everyone to participate in the play, even if they were relegated to Lights or Stage Crew. But despite the size, there were only so many starting spots, and even fewer speaking roles. My goal was to get them.

The sports thing came easy. I was an athlete in a somewhat non-athletic school. I was good at field hockey and I could dribble and pass a basketball (the whole shooting thing was another story) so I became a key contributor on the field and the court.

What came easier to me was drama! Performing, theatrically acting, hamming it up, making an entrance and making em laugh, taking my bows and devouring the applause came even more naturally to me. Call it middle child syndrome, but I embraced the spot light, laughed in the face of stage fright, clamored for attention, and tapped, sang, and recited my troubles away from the kindergarten on. I believed that the annual school play was made for me.

The swan song of the academic calendar was put on by the seventh and eighth graders and produced, cast, and directed by the one and only Charlie, Chaplain, DJ, Radio Host, Teacher of Bible and Theology, Performing Arts and Appreciation, and 20th Century Social Issues (in your school you might have called these classes "religion," "theater," and "social studies"), giver of A+s to the infinity power, director of screw ball comedic school plays, and father of five children.

When I hit the seventh grade, I counted down the minutes of my field hockey and basketball games, anticipating try-outs for the play. Long gone were the days of the amateur Earth Day and Grandparents and Special Friends Day plays, the school play was the big leagues. And this was my chance to shine - to show them that I was bound for big things. The play was Don't Drink the Water, and I got the role of Susan. I wanted to be Marion - I thought I deserved Marion, but as a seventh grader, I was demoted, and worse than that I had to do my first stage kiss. Ew. Fine. Eighth grade would be my year.

Charlie Appel, Director picked The Man Who Came to Dinner the following year, and I hadn't seen him that excited about a theatrical choice since Arsenic and Old Lace circa 1993. (My sister's epic fifteen minutes of fame.)

I got the script and immediately identified the character with the most lines. Maggie. She would be mine. Try-outs. These consisted of an after-school gathering in the auditorium for all interested seventh and eighth graders (which was all 40 of us.) Charlie would mix and match who read what, and quietly take notes. That girl can't speak above a raspy whisper. That boy still can't read. She doesn't look the part. That boy's mom is the head of the PTA. Seriously, Lauren, tone it down a notch.

After try-outs, I remember Dan and Paul B. and Paul L. telling me I was a shoe-in. That I would certainly be cast as Maggie while they tried to figure out which one of them would make the best Sheridan Whiteside. By the end of that week, the list was up, except my name wasn't next to Maggie. It was next to Lorraine Sheldon. I didn't even remember what her role was in the play. It couldn't be right. What the F?!

I went home that night and highlighted my lines. Not as many as Maggie, but still a lot - three big scenes. And the next day at practice, I figured something out. I had THE role. See Maggie lacked in dimensionality - any girl that could project her voice, stand up straight, and read well could have been her. But only I could have played Lorraine with panache. She was the scene stealer. And when I came out on stage for the first time on opening night, and people laughed and clapped at my first line, I thought, wow - this is amazing.

I haven't had a role that good since. Mavis, in Mavis Turner's Tappers couldn't even compare. It was the epitome of my short-lived acting career, and to this day, I don't think I will ever have the same sweet acting satisfaction that I felt when I was locked in the mummy case at the end of the play.

Every so once in a while, I still catch myself saying a couple of lines in my head. "Sherry, my sweet! Oh darling, look that poor sweet tortured face, let me kiss it." And reminiscing. Which is exactly what I found myself doing last night, as I made final preparations for our very special dinner guest.

Last night, a man didn't come to dinner. (Well, my brother did, but he was cast more along the lines of Bert, the nice, dutiful newspaper man.) A little girl did. And man, did she steal the show.

Peter and I played the role of the hospitable Stanleys, ever excited for her arrival. Luckily the girl didn't fall on the way into the house. But she did get a little sick once inside.

And all night long - she hammed it up.

And held court. And entertained us. And made us laugh.

She even did a little slapstick with the football.

Set hike!

Come on, get down field - here it comes!

At the end, I only wished that the girl who came to dinner could have made up an excuse a la Sheridan Whiteside to stay longer.

Way better than acting these days is playing the role of Aunt. And last night, scene four, was as sweet as ever. Miss Lyla, you are always welcome at our dinner table. And I can't wait to teach you how to take a bow. (It's much better than falling asleep at the end of your performance.)

Lo.

Beef Birds - A Recipe for the Retro Years

2011-09-29T09:53:00.001-05:00

My parents remember their "lean years." The early part of their marriage that included an incomplete honeymoon, a basement apartment decorated with furniture from yard sales, dinners of tuna salad and green beans, and a creative collection of cost-effective date nights.

Despite the beautiful and hysterical stories that came out of my parents lean years - stories that make the continuum between where they were and where they are now more impressive and stories that make their marriage even richer - I never really wanted to have my own stock piling Chicken of the Sea hungry years. But, as fortune would have it, Peter and I are in the midst of them. Except they aren't only lean, they are retro. In a tumultuous, down economy, and in the still early stages of our second careers, we have learned to live a little more humbly, save a lot more, and make the most of what we have at present, which might just have been set pieces in the Brady Bunch.

As a somewhat (my brother would argue a lot more than somewhat) spoiled girl, I originally had visions of getting married and moving into a brand new, double balcony, two-bedroom condo complete with an enormous walk-in closet. But earlier this month, when "when I get married" became a reality, I earned two assets - my handsome groom and his retro ranch house.

I remember when Peter first told me about his house. And then when I first saw the house on our first weekender trip to Naperville in MBA school. And then walking in, looking down the hallway and seeing this.

Ew. What is that wall paper? (Yes, I blurted that out to my at the time very new boyfriend.) But then I got a little closer to it.

And touched it. The black detail work is raised and felted, and the backdrop is a silky material. It reminded me of the textured wall paper at Le Vieux Logis, the beautiful Relais and Chateau hotel in the Dordogne region of France where I had stayed on a family vacation in 1999. And now, post honeymoon, it reminds me of our room at the Belles Rives in Antibes.

I fell in love with the wall paper, and by the end of the tour of Peter's house, I said, wherever we live, that wall paper is coming with us.

After many visits to Naperville, after many meals cooked in the little kitchen, and after moving in, I started warming up to the other elements of the house. The green bathroom with two showers. (Yes, two showers.) The dark cabinetry. The flooring. The light fixtures. Each retro detail had a charm to it - a character - a reason why I should give it a chance.

And then on her first visit to the house, my sister pointed out something that really made me love it. "Oh wow, that's the same floor that Grandma and Grandpa Barry have in their kitchen." I hadn't realized it, but when I looked at it again, I saw it too.

And I started to see other details that enabled the house to channel both sets of our grandparents and the legacy from which we come. The smell of the midwestern basement and descent into it reminds me of going down to the basement at 719 Forrest, and getting the ping pong paddles out or sneaking a couple snickernoodles out of the freezer. Being in the kitchen reminds me of standing in line at the stove at Olga and Red's house to get my helping of stuffed cabbage, pork and sauerkraut, or beef birds and then take my seat on the bench at the long kitchen table made for a family of ten. The furniture in the house from Peter's grandparents calls to mind his trips to visit them in Colorado and the perfectly perfect pound cakes, sugar cookies, and kugels that came out of Oma's kitchen. The beautiful artwork made by the one and only SGS, brings the romantic stories of SGS' travels with Poppa Bob through Europe to the equation. And as irony would have it, the house was built on a old asparagus farm, so like Grandpa Barry, we now grow our own in the garden out back.

Last night, my sister came all the way from Pittsburgh to retro land for dinner, so in the kitchen that she told me channels Grandma Barry, I made one of our favorites growing up, beef birds. (What is that?!) Round steaks, meat malleted into tenderness, stuffed with bread, carrots and onions, roasted to perfection, slathered in pan gravy, and served with sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus (of course.) A recipe that is most likely not in your Joy of Cooking books. A tribute to Grandma Barry and a celebration of our "retro years."

There is a For Sale sign in our yard. It's been there for about a year now, and the future of our continued retro residency is uncertain. Part of me wants to remove the sign and stay - to give the house the love and rehab it deserves. Day by day, meal by meal, I'm becoming more attached. After all, the asparagus roots are only two years old - Grandpa's are about 50 - we have a long way to go to achieve the ultimate harvest. But one thing is certain for now, the retro years are great, and we will always remember them, look fondly on them, and tell our children lots of stories about them.

Lo.

(For those interested in making your own beef birds ... read on.)

I bought about a pound and half of round steak. And used my Samurai sword of a new butcher knife to cut it into thin (1/4 inch) strips. Then I used the meat mallet and went to town pounding them into submission. Then I salted, peppered and floured the strips of meat, browned them on each side in vegetable oil, and set them aside. In the same pan I added about a cup and half of beef stock and slopped up all the brown bits. Then I added about 2 tablespoons of tomato paste.

Then I made the stuffing: Sauteed onions, carrots and celery in vegetable oil for about 7 minutes. Added chopped up stale bread, salt and pepper. Nothing more, nothing less. And wrapped up each slice of meat with the stuffing and stuck them with toothpicks. I set them in the sauce, and then let them roast for an hour in a half at 350 degrees. (I would actually let them roast for another hour after that, so they go from tender to melt in your mouth Grandma Barry goodness.)

I removed them from the oven, smothered them in the pan gravy that had been created, and served them with mashers and spargel.

Them are goooooooood.

Let Us Eat Cake

2011-09-26T06:43:00.001-05:00

On Friday, Peter and I watched Marie Antoinette. I had told him about it when we were walking through the Tuilleries in Paris a couple weeks ago. "We should definitely watch it when we get back!" I alluded that it would be able to provide an accurate historical representation of 18th century Paris and would be fun for us to learn from together.

Honestly, this was mostly a selfish act as I had seen it countless times before and knew it was Sofia Coppola's artsy adaptation of the youthful, beautiful, party-going queen. I also knew it was in Peter's terms, "a girl movie." I first saw the film when it came out in theaters in 2006 - a year when the theme and, as Peter put it, "plotless story line," seemed to hit home. When I felt like I was more or less in Marie Antoinette's pointy-toed, courtly shoes leading a life of shopping, dining, and drinking in fancy long gloves (yes, I wore gloves on a couple occasions) with no real goals in sight. As MA said, "it's fun!" And that was the sole explanation I was looking for.

This time around, on Peter's first viewing and my 10th perhaps, I had a different sentiment. I still loved the costumes and the modern music and Jason Schwartzman's awkward portrayal of Louis Auguste and the Swedish captain with the dark eyes who fought valiantly in America. But instead of opening up my own closet after the film, getting dressed, calling my ladies in waiting and Mini Coopering over to SOBA for French martinis a la Rob Hirst, I had a bedtime of 9:30 and alarm clock set to 5:30 to look forward to.

There were no French fetes to attend this weekend, and I found myself more or less among the common masses, incredulously ogling the behavior at Versailles, dismissing any desire to be a part of it, but simultaneously disappointed that we weren't invited. I became one of the people who was supposed to eat cake while Marie Antoinette and the Contesse and the Dukes and Duchesses were partying.

So I did.

The next morning I made and ate old fashioned sour cream cake donuts - recipe courtesy of the one and only and totally amazing Jess Thompson who just published her first cookbook about what else, mmmmmmm, doughnuts. (Rolling pin made by her equally amazing husband Jim.)

And I made some petites madeleines - perfect little French sponge cakes.

And in an effort to make sure no one in this house went hungry and revolted against Naperville's own revelers, the cougars at Jilly's, I went all out last night and made an entire stuffed, roasted chicken, which we will be eating tonight as well.

At which point my mind was really off going to court, because I wouldn't have been able to fit into any of my ruffly dresses.

It was the first weekend in a long time when Peter and I had nothing planned and no parties to attend, and I've got to say, it felt weird at first. So I spent a significant amount of time making a scrap book about all the places we'd been over the past year, all the people we had partied with, and all the times we had said, because it's fun!

And then I realized something while showing off my weekend's worth of work to Peter last night, I had a lot of pages left to fill. My scrap book was far from finished.

Sometimes though, you need a time out and a whole weekend when it's just you and me (and Roscoe), to reflect on where you've been, to confirm that the future of your life in your little ranch house is far rosier than that of those living at Versailles, and to make sure that life together will always be happy and the kind of private party that everyone wants to emulate. And that's really fun.

Now, I'm off for a morning jog with my new running partner.

Lo.

Picture Retake Day

2011-09-24T07:38:00.001-05:00

I run by Washington Junior High School in Naperville just about every day. In front of the school, there is a big promotional placard showcasing their slogan of sorts, "Educating the Producers of Tomorrow." Yesterday and I'm guessing for the next week or so, that important academic mantra was replaced with an essential announcement, Picture Retake Day is October 3.

I giggled down Washington Street after reading that, thinking about the stress that Washington Junior High seems to put on the day. It's like they wanted to make sure that Naperville's tweens don't end up on AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com. "We know there were LOTS of bad photos this year, make sure your kid ceases looking awkward by October 3!" I also giggled as I thought about picture days past, and how many times I imagine my parents wanted a retake.

Say, kindergarten's picture day, when my parents didn't get the bulletin the week before and didn't know about it. I showed up to the make-shift photo studio with a pink sweat suit and strangly hair. The photographer gave me a little comb to straighten out my do, but he had nothing to cover up my aerobics outfit. My parents were mortified when I came home and told them that I had had my picture taken that day.

Then there was seventh grade, when I was at the prime of my braces. I was perhaps the one girl in the world that was proud of them - that loved showing them off - that saw getting her rubber bands changed as a golden opportunity to color coordinate with every holiday. I rocked everything from orange and black, to green and red, to red, white and blue. Before rappers had grills, I had a pimped out metal mouth that I truly believed looked awesome. On school picture day, 1994, I made the widest grin possible, revealing the Steeler pride of my teeth. The black and yellow rubber bands set against the steely gray, shiny background, literally took up half of the photograph. I can remember showing my family the 8 by 10 - Ooooooh.

In Naperville, both of these would have been retakes, but we never seemed to have this option in Pittsburgh. Which might explain my parents' scrutiny over my brother's school picture outfits. (He wore a bow tie and blazer from Pre-Kindergarten on.) Or my sister's supplemental photo shoot for her senior portrait.

Despite the assumption that my photo would be bad, it was always very exciting getting the portrait studio's envelop in your mailbox. I would always keep mine face down on my desk so I couldn't see the 5 by 7 through the window on the front of the envelop. I would slowly open it and reach for the wallets first, the smallest versions of my awkwardness, and decide whether or not I would continue to the 4 by 6's and 8 by 10's, or hide my envelop so Brittany, the girl with the perfect school portraits couldn't see, and hope that next year's would be better.

While the excitement and inevitable disappointment of school pictures is over for me, this week I got something even better than my triple chin laden sixth grade school picture or my David Cassidy look alike eighth grade school picture. I got the wedding pictures! And guess what? I mostly don't look awkward! Perhaps having a hair stylist and make up artist on site helped. Or perhaps Purvis was just way better than the creepy photographers with the little combs at St. Edmund's. Regardless, I'm not keeping them face down on my desk, I encourage you to take a look!

My sister told me this week that one of the ways to get past the wedding is over blues, is to look at the pictures. And yes, each evening this week, I have looked through 100 or 200 of them. (There are 1,400!) But that just doesn't quite cut it.

After seeing the "Retake Day" sign yesterday, I had this great idea. What if we had a wedding picture retake day? We don't have to do everything again, but maybe just get dressed up, and lounge around in the backyard in our fancy clothes, and perhaps bring back the band, and the champagne, and everyone on the dance floor? After all, there are definitely some that need to be retaken.

I swear that is my prayer face, not an eye roll.

I had to have one more sip didn't I?

Really? Who told us to not smile. (Oh yeah, me.)

Der.

I do not know why I am touching Heski's armpit.


Peter: "That is the world's smallest piece"	Me: "Fine, you cut it!"

Ew.

Okay, my Dad's probably shaking his head, "NO!" with a vengeance right now. So I'll keep looking at the good ones, which are a plenty.

And I'll also try to follow my other friends' advice. Courtney said she just focused on her house and her dogs. So this weekend, we're doing just that; organizing and planning our future Atomic Ranch winner, and taking care of our house guest, Roscoe.

Thank you Michael Purvis for an absolutely phenomenal collection of wedding photos - they capture the fun, happiness and love on our wedding day perfectly.

Lo.

The Anatomy of a Thank You Note

2011-09-21T17:03:00.001-05:00

When I was growing up, I never needed to go to a card store. I never needed to combat the scrutinizing eyes of the ornery old sales lady at Cards Plus. And I never needed to shield my eyes and scurry past the "adult card room" to find a birthday card at Kards Unlimited, the more liberal card store in town. The cards came to us. By way of our very own card dealer, my mother, who after a long day using legal language must have a sought refuge in the poems and riddles of Hallmark and moonlighted as a greeting card collector.

About once a week she would come home with a little paper bag filled with cards. She would quietly call us one by one into her room to pick a card - for grandpa's birthday, for Anna's Christening, for Teacher Appreciation Day, for Dad (just because he's Dad and he deserved lots of cards.)

You always wanted to be the first to pick your card - to get the cream of the crop. The fold out, story one that depicted you and your grandpa, say, as house mice, reading by the fire, picking tomatoes in the garden, watching the big game, and laughing together. The one that wasn't as childlike as the others.

Occasionally, the little brown bag had something else in it though. The other purchase you can make at card stores. Thank you notes. Two 10-packs of cute little thank you notes, that my mom had picked out just for me. I could thank all my relatives with one set, and all my friends with the other, for all the shiny, new birthday gifts that lined my twin bed.

While I loved writing a message and signing my name on greeting cards, I was a little less enthusiastic about the repetitive messaging on thank you notes. My Mom taught me how to write them - the winning formula. Tell them thank you for the gift. Name the gift. Tell them thank you for coming to your party. Tell them that you love them a lot. And then sign your name.

I mostly followed my Mom's etiquette, except for once, around my eighth birthday. I can still remember the Snoopy themed thank you cards. I skipped the first four sentences, and went straight to signing my name. And not even signing my full name, just my initials. I opened up each each Snoopy card, wrote "L.F." on the inside, and sealed them. Word traveled quickly across the chatty Auntie network and soon enough my Mom found out about my faux pas, My thank you note writing was under surveillance for several years later, until I developed an affinity and appreciation for the art of writing "thank you," and my own little formula.

True to form, my Mom (and Dad) got me my thank you cards for the wedding. Three giant boxes of them. And I'm nearly through box two. This time around, I didn't only get schooled in thank you note etiquette from my Mom, I got it from the high class card lady at Marjie Allen, who told me not to fall behind! And I'm proud to say, I haven't. I believe that I have written more than 200 thank you notes at this point, with a couple more to go, and they don't just have my new initials "L.S." on them, they each have a different, personalized, and thoughtful message.

While my hand gets a cramp each evening, my handwriting goes from somewhat cryptic to completely so, and I continue to wish that I was just done already, there is something really special in writing each message. And I start to wonder, how one card can express all the gratitude that Peter and I have. It can't, but its an artful gesture.

Last night, after card #201 most likely, I sent a tweet that went something like this, "So tired of thank you notes. I wish a thank you tweet covered it." I didn't mean it, and a tweet most certainly wouldn't express it all, but if I could expand the field beyond 140 characters, it would have gone something like this.

Thank you for making our house, a home sweet ranch home.
Thank you for making our toasts sing crystal's sweet tune.
Thank you for allowing dinner to have such stunning edges.

Thank you for framing our most special moments.

Thank you for encouraging our bed to go from orange and brown to white.
Thank you for wrapping us in steely gray warmth.
Thank you for making cooking and carving even more exciting.

Thank you for being there.

For praying with us, dining with us, dancing with us, loving us, making us smile.

You made our day. And you will continue to make our life.

Lo. (and PTS.)

Blogging Ahead

2011-09-19T08:13:00.001-05:00

When I was young, I was taught to not count my chickens before they hatch. But to think ahead, to be the early bird that catches the worm, and to get it while it's hot. After this weekend, I have a new cliche word to the wise to add to this list. Despite your desire to be first to market, don't blog ahead.

In talking to "professional bloggers" at work in an attempt to pitch our campaign messaging, I've learned a thing or two about how they blog. And one thing that they all seem to do is blog ahead. They blog when they can, often times on the weekends, stage the content it, and schedule it to be published on certain days when they know they will drive the most traffic to their site.

Trying to up my status as an amateur, I decided I would plan ahead this weekend. Friday evening, I started outlining, writing and even formatting my entry for Saturday evening. I was all prepped and ready to go, I just needed to add some photos, and voila! I would have this high traffic day because everyone would be searching for news about the Notre Dame game and I would have the scoop, live from South Bend, Indiana.

My blog was going to be called, "How to Cheer for a Losing Team.” The entire premise was based on a Notre Dame loss and the comfort food I would make to ease the spirits of the downtrodden fans. The take-aways were to:

Cheer for yourself. (I ran 22 miles Saturday morning in 3 hours flat! Feeling pumped and ready to run for Team RMHC, I spent the whole 2-hour ride to South Bend, cheering for myself, and making Peter cheer for me too.)

Cheer for your friends. The MBA crew was in town, so I anticipated spending the afternoon cheering for them to be goofy and goofier.

Skip the inevitable loss and cook. Yes, I've become the ultimate fair weather fan, and decided I don't even need to go into the stadium anymore. I used to go in midway through the first quarter and leave at halftime, but this year, I opted for the couch.

Comfort the losing team's fans with good food. A roast beef and mashed potato dinner was on the menu.

That was my plan. And then, ND started doing well. And winning. And winning by more. And I became the loser - the only person in South Bend hunting for a better bone-in standing rib roast in Martins while Robert Blanton intercepted the ball and nearly ran it back for a touchdown.

It made me kind of sad. I used to be such a good little Notre Dame fan. I grew up watching the Irish every Saturday with my family. I would lie on the living room floor, staring up at the television, dressed from head to toe in ND gear that we had received as souvenirs the year before at the old Notre Dame bookstore on South Quad. I would get anxious with my Dad and brother when the game came down to the wire. And I would get angry when the refs made a bad call or Rocket’s touchdown was called back. I would cheer and applaud, and scream and yell when Chris Zorich and his swaggering defensive line made a heroic goal line stand. And I would eagerly wait for the following weekend, when we would actually be on campus for the game - when I could hoot and holler for the band as they stepped off from the Golden Dome, and proudly follow them into the stadium, ready and raring to do every cheer the way the students did. I was a great fan!

But after a decade or so of Domer disappointment, I started to find new things to do on Saturdays. It became a waste of time to watch the irrelevant Irish. And while my parents, brother and sister, friends and extended family held on to high hopes, I fell off the band wagon.

On Saturday, I totally missed the excitement. I missed the potential turn around from mediocrity. I had to live vicariously through Peter's pictures.

And scrap the blog that I had created. I had no insider perspective, no value-add on Saturday.

But on Sunday, I got a new lead. Perhaps one that won't drive Search traffic to the Early Riser, but one that definitely merits some words. Ellie ate solid food yesterday, and I was there to see it! Talk about a headliner.

Which means that Auntie Lo and Uncle Peter will certainly be Friday night babysitters soon. And that Ellie will soon enough be eating chicken pot pies with us on Sunday evening.

I don't talk about sampled products, big brand events, or blogger conventions on my blog. I talk about life. And in our life, you most certainly shouldn't blog ahead.

Here's hoping that the Irish can make a fan out of me again.

Lo.