Stories

I don't know if it’s the famous economy, or I'm just going through an I can't stand take-out anymore, but I've started to cook again. Not just grill a burger, which turns out pretty good when done on a stove top grill pan. I've actually been making vats of chile, or chicken and vegetables in marinara sauce, and freezing perfect portions in those great plastic containers everyone else in the world discovered before I did It's been a bone-chilling winter in New York this year, and coming home to something yummy that I can pop into the microwave, then actually eat straight from the container, has been life-changing. So that's what the room with all the white stuff that I used to go into all the time, is for.

I'm telling all of this to you for a reason. Sometimes, I want that comforting supper, and the freezer is bare. This requires imagination. And boy was I lucky last night. I had a sizeable hunk of Velveeta in the fridge. I had bread and butter. And I had fresh pineapple. Am I the last person on earth to discover how completely wonderful a grilled cheese sandwich, made with Velveeta, and slices of fresh pineapple, can be.

I'll probably try it with Kraft slices, or even some fancier cheese, but only when I'm out of Velveeta. You can be sure I'll always have the pineapple at hand.

Read Part 2

"I'm alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic...I'm alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic--I'm alive, awake, alert--I'm alert, awake, alive--I'm alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic!" (Insert dance moves through entire song).

Since I went to girl scout camp in middle school (yes I'll admit that), this has been my morning mantra. I was recently reminded how important the days of sleep-a-way camp were for me, how they affected me, and how they shaped me. 

I spent several summers at Camp Mosey Wood in northern Pennsylvania forging friendships with people from all over the world. I remember meeting new friends from Maine, new friends from Virginia, new friends from Florida, and new friends from New York City. I remember meeting counselors from Ireland, England, and Australia. I remember asking the New Yorkers to teach me how to say Florida with a real New York accent. I remember staying up all night sharing ghost stories, and I remember sitting by the sides of home-sick campers and telling them jokes until they felt better.  Home-sickness seemed to be a violently contagious disease that laughter could cure. I should have known my life would revolve around laughter then.

It has recently come to our attention that in 90 days my husband may, or may not have a job. As the House Writer, I began immediately to work on resumés, cover letters, and all manner of beguiling a lifetime of hard and varied work into an irresistible nugget of information. No spinning or glossing is necessary in this case; the man has worked hard from the time he was driving a tractor illegally through the fields of the family farm. The work, the hard, complicated part of the thing is distilling the best of him using “action verbs” (as opposed to those other, non-action verbs) and using terms and jargon expected by the business world.

As I write about his work, and think again about the many things he knows, I think about how very odd, incomplete and schizophrenic my own resumé would appear at this time in my life. As of 7:30 or so last night, I might have said something like “well, I gave up law to be a cook, and I’m not trained professionally but I’m really good at it.” Having come directly from putting 25 pounds of flank steak to bed in sealed bags of fragrant marinade, knowing that I would get up this morning and make 100 impossibly fluffy biscuits for strawberry shortcake, I was feeling pretty cocky.

Dandelions do not lie. Hold one of those wild flowers under my chin and you will see. A sunshiny reflection of that yellow dandelion will show up on the skin just under my chin. As a child, my friends and I would play that game as we braided dandelions to make necklaces and bracelets. Always, the test results would show I loved butter. And, always, a couple of my jewelry-making friends would fail the test. No yellow reflection would show up under their chin. They did not love butter.

My mother was raised on a farm with fresh milk and creamy butter. I learned early on that butter made the best cookies. And, butter is the only thing that should be spread on toast, pancakes, waffles and French toast. Everything is better with butter. That's been my motto.

Recently, when I discovered my cholesterol is a little elevated, I've started being more conscious of the fat I'm consuming. I guess all that butter has finally caught up with me.