Soup for You!

NEWMAN: "Elaine's down there causing all kinds of commotion. Somehow she got a hold of his recipes and she says she's gonna drive him out of business!

"The Soup Nazi said that now that his recipes are out, he's not gonna make anymore soup! He's moving out of the country, moving to Argentina! No more soup, Jerry! No more soup for any of us!"

"Seinfeld," Episode 116; 11/2/95

I had another one of those situations where I realized that about two cups of leftover chicken stock from Christmas needed a home, along with a couple of potatoes and a package of mild cheddar cheese that had been purchased by mistake. We don't eat mild cheddar cheese. I mean, I don't eat mild cheddar cheese. Give me sharp or give me nothing. While you're at it, give me extra sharp. But, mild? It's only hope would be as an incredient, because there would be no eating it from the package.

I recently tuned into a trick I read about on a food blog. It was designed for people who only had three things in their refrigerator, but I knew it would work for me, too. The idea was to put the three ingredients you had on hand into a google search, then stand back and watch the amazing recipes that would magically emerge from the internet. Unheard of ideas that would take your three, potentially completely unrelated items and produce something you could actually eat.

I put "two cups of chicken broth, potatoes, cheese" into a search knowing that a long list of potato cheese soup recipes would likely emerge. The only question would be whether I would find a recipe that called for other ingredients that I had on hand or wanted to use in a soup. No respectable potato cheese soup comes together without some other stuff. Although I also had sour cream and heavy cream in the refrigerator, I certainly didn't want to add to what would likely be an insanely high calorie count for any soup using milk.

The other challenge would be to find a recipe that would come together properly with 1% milk, since that is all we drink. Without the heavier fat content, it would certainly help the nutrition calcs, but the lack of fat might lead to some other, unforeseen disaster.

It didn't take long to see that the "Ruby Tuesday's Potato Cheese Soup" from recipezaar.com was the one I needed. Now, I don't know if it is really the recipe for the potato cheese soup served at Ruby Tuesday's, since I've never had it. The good news was that it didn't make very much. So, the risk of making it and having it turn out poorly wasn't very high. I was using up extraneous ingredients that might go bad without trying it; I hate few things in life more than throwing out any food that passes its shelf date or withers in a vegetable bin. I waited a few days to see if my interest would wane.

Today was another "sun" day in metro Denver ahead of what was forecast to be colder temperatures and snow for Super Bowl Sunday. But, who knows?! I rarely plan my food around the weather here because you no sooner get your mouth set for something warm, and the sun burns down on you. Or, vice versa. I had three or four things going already -- lemon poppyseed bread in the oven, onions on the stove to caramelize and top bisquits for a recession-style pissaladiere, and two loads of laundry in various stages. Another pot on the stove wasn't going to be a big deal.

To my great surprise, this soup was very good. I have never put white vinegar into a soup pot and almost left it out because I wondered if it would impart a sour flavor. Since the whole thing was a kitchen experiment anyway, I added it. It smelled strong, and I could smell it throughout the cooking time. I thought it was a mistake.

I knew that vinegar was an acid in this recipe, like lemon juice or wine. But, it really seemed to marry all the flavors of the ingredients and sharpen the cheese somewhat. That was an added plus, since I wondered if mild cheddar cheese would disappear on my taste buds and leave me with plain, old potato soup.

The other thing I liked about this recipe was that the soup did not water down as I ate it. I cooked it for a long time on very low heat, since I'm at 6100 feet. Everything requires more cooking here, and I didn't rush it. Using one percent milk meant that it was going to be thinner than recipes that use sour cream or heavy cream. But, I didn't boil it down to reduce it. It wasn't really thick, but it didn't taste or eat like a thin, watery soup either. Not using heavy boil at any point in the recipe probably contributed to this outcome. Even the broccoli cheddar soup at Panera waters down after a few spoonfuls, so I thought the consistency got the same high marks as the flavor profile.

It will be a cold day in Denver before I make this soup again.

Or, maybe it won't.

Ruby Tuesday's Potato Cheese Soup

1.5 hours/50 min. prep

Serves 2

2 large russet potatoes

2 tbsp. finely minced celery

1 tbsp. finely minced onion

1 tbsp. grated carrot

2 cups chicken stock or chicken broth

1 tsp. salt

2 tsp. white vinegar

2 tbsp. all-purpose flour

1.5 cups milk

1 cup shredded cheddar cheese, plus

1 tbsp. shredded cheddar cheese

1 tbsp. shredded monterey jack cheese

2 slices bacon, cooked and drained

1 tbsp. chopped green onion

1. Peel potatoes and chop into bite-size pieces.

2. Make sure vegetables are minced into very small pieces - carrot should be grated, not shredded.

3. In a large saucepan, combine vegetables with chicken stock, salt, and vinegar over medium heat.

4. Bring to a boil, then turn down heat, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes.

5. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour and milk.

6. Remove saucepan with vegetables from heat and add flour and milk mixture.

7. Return pan to heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5 to 8 minutes or until soup has thickened.

8. Add 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese to soup and simmer until melted.

9. By now, the potatoes should be tender and falling apart.

10.If not, continue cooking until soup is as thick as you like it.

11. To serve, divide soup into 2 bowls.

12. Divide remaining 1 tablespoons of Monterey Jack and Cheddar cheeses and sprinkle on the soup.

13. Crumble bacon and sprinkle evenly over the cheese.

14. Top each bowl of soup with chopped green onion.

CRD Note: Swanson's Chicken Broth is my preference for this recipe and those like it. The flavor and consistency results beat any recipe that only uses water, by a lot.

The Power of Pink

Sandra Kay Yow
Head Coach, North Carolina State Women's Basketball
1942-2009

























Pink will never be the same because of you.

"Yow's goodbye crafted in her selfless way"

By Caldon Tudor
Raleigh News & Observer

Posted: Saturday, Jan. 31, 2009

CARY -- Kay Yow's good-bye message on Friday reminded me of the first time I met her, which was 30 or so years ago on a chilly afternoon in Maryland's Cole Field House.

Then, as in death, Yow refused to let anything be about her. It was all about others – the people around her, even the people she didn't know or could never know.

In a video recording that the former N.C. State women's basketball coach filmed some weeks ago, she emphasized the importance of religion. Her parting wish was that those in attendance at Cary's Colonial Baptist Church – and far beyond – seek a greater reward from life than gold medals and gold bullion.

Coach Yow may have been the most selfless person I've ever met, and she was that way long before religion came to play such a prominent role in her life. The lady was a hopeless optimist. I told her that once and her response was classic: “Hey, if you just take time to look for the best in people, you'll find it in no time at all.”

The day I met her was during the first round of the ACC women's tournament in the late 1970s. Women's basketball, in those days, was only a slight cut above intramural athletics. I was the only sports writer at the game, and there weren't many more fans in the arena that afternoon than sports writers.

N.C. State won the game by at least 30 points and that was only through the grace of Yow. It could have been 60.

At game's end, I waited outside the locker room to ask the coach a few questions. She was fully startled to see a reporter of any type, much less someone from The Raleigh Times.

“My goodness!” she said. “Are you really going to do a story on our game?”

After I assured her that a game report on the Wolfpack women was my lone assignment of the day, her only item of urgency was that I interview her players.

“I'll go get some of them for you to talk to,” she said. “You wait right here. Don't you dare move. Stay right there. Don't budge. These girls are so dedicated, and they're such wonderful kids, and just one story would mean so much to them, and they've worked so hard for so long, and their families drive all the way to these games, and they all bring school books along all the time, and they make good grades, and we had bus problems getting up here, and it didn't take anything away from their enthusiasm whatsoever, and we'd love for you to come to practice one day and see how much effort they put into it, and there are so many great young gals hoping to see women's basketball survive, and it's such a great opportunity for girls.”

And on and on and on.

I was embarrassed to tears.

But not the sort of tears I fought to hold back Friday.

And, of course, all the players wanted to talk about their coach. Yow, in turn, didn't like that drift and insisted that the story focus on the players.

At long last – after Yow virtually dictated the storyline to me – I returned to courtside, pulled out my trusty Royal portable typewriter and went to work on my first-ever women's basketball game report.

Sure enough, about 10 minutes later, Coach Copy Editor Yow was peeking over my shoulder with stern advice. “Now don't forget,” she warned, “this should be about the players and women's game.”

One other thing: Beneath the hundreds of chairs in the church building Friday, there was a basketball court. That, she would have liked. It wasn't Coach Yow Court. Just a simple basketball court, where young girls years from now will learn to dribble, shoot and discover lessons much more important than a game score.

In the Paint: SI.com's All-American Hoops Blog

"The Kay Yow Movement"

Posted by Nicki Jhabvala

Kay Yow never stopped fighting. (AP)

"To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special."
-- Jim Valvano (March 10, 1946-April 28, 1993)

Hues of blue and deep reds starkly divided the crowd of thousands. Kay Yow's seat on the North Carolina State bench was placed directly at half-court, where the contrasting shirts met, as if to bind the opposing sides. On the court, the players donned pink shoelaces, and pink ribbons were attached to their jerseys. Superficially, it was an eyesore. But in that moment, it was beautiful.

It was March 2007, and the women's Atlantic Coast Conference tournament was coming to a close at the Greensboro Coliseum in North Carolina. But it wasn't just a tournament; it was a battle. For everyone -- coaches, players and fans -- it was an emotional battle.

During halftime of the semifinal matchup between the North Carolina Tar Heels and the Maryland Terrapins, Yow and Virginia coach Debbie Ryan were honored as co-recipients of the Bob Bradley Spirit and Courage Award. The two had fought cancer (Ryan with pancreatic, Yow with breast cancer), and Yow's then-20-year struggle had picked up steam as her previous mastectomy, radiation treatment and hormone therapy had done little to keep the disease at bay. Yow's fight had drawn supporters from around the country, but especially in the conference. After all, she was born in North Carolina (Gibsonville), schooled in North Carolina and had spent her entire coaching career in North Carolina. This was her home.

In her 38 years of coaching -- four with Elon College, 34 with N.C. State -- Yow compiled a 737-344 record. She led the U.S. Olympic team to a gold medal in 1988 (a year after her cancer diagnosis) and the Wolfpack to four ACC tournament titles, 20 NCAA tournament bids and a Final Four appearance. And in 2002, she became only the fifth female coach inducted into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

During the 2006-07 regular season, Yow took a 16-game leave to focus on her treatment. When she returned to the sidelines, her strength had yet to return with her. But for her team -- to have its coach back on the bench, back where she had always been for the past 26 seasons with N.C. State - Yow's homecoming brought a renewed sense of dedication and a wave of inspiration. The Wolfpack's home court, Reynolds Coliseum, was renamed "Kay Yow Court," and the team won 12 out of its last 15 games, taking down conference rivals North Carolina and Duke before falling to Connecticut in the Sweet 16 of the NCAA tournament.

As N.C. State plowed forth in the conference tournament that year, a record of nearly 70,000 spectators filtered in and out of the coliseum over the weekend, not only to watch some of the top players and coaches in Division I basketball go head to head, but to also take part in an inspirational movement. Though not officially named, it was the Kay Yow movement against cancer, and it was shared by all -- strangers and rivals alike.

In the press conference following the final game, which the Wolfpack lost to the Tar Heels 60-54, even the stoic demeanor of reporters were tried as Yow struggled to speak -- her chemotherapy treatment, just a week prior, cut away at both her strength and voice. Her once glowing visage looked drawn and tired, her eyes drooping and vacant.

A couple of ambulances were parked discreetly at the rear of the coliseum, while emergency medical personnel were scattered throughout as eerie reminders of what could happen. While her team was on the floor, the once energetic and physically involved coach struggled to adhere to doctors' orders. Her assistant, Stephanie Glance, who had taken over the team in Yow's absence to lead the Wolfpack both in play calling and in spirit, played the role of guardian on the sideline. Her primary duty: keep Yow from getting too excited. Keep her seated. Keep her from expending too much energy.

During the regular season, UNC coach Sylvia Hatchell and Ryan carpooled over to Yow's house in Cary, N.C., to spend time with her, to talk about life and relationships -- to enjoy each other's company outside of the gym, the rivalrous tensions cast aside. Hatchell remembered it as "a really special visit."

For the thousands at the Greensboro Coliseum that weekend in March, Yow's appearance in the midst of a tiresome fight for her life was their special visit. Because, in taking what her late N.C. State counterpart, Jim Valvano, once said, cancer could take away her physical abilities, but she refused to let it touch her mind, her heart or her soul. She refused to stop fighting.

AP: N.C. State women's coach Yow dies at 66

ANDERSON: We've learned not to count out Yow

Bugs on My WindowPane

Q: How many Windows programmers does it take to change a light bulb?

A: 472.
One to write WinGetLightBulbHandle...
One to write WinQueryStatusLightBulb...
One to write WinGetLightSwitchHandle...

About a year ago, I learned that the term "Trojan Horse" in the 21st Century wasn't necessarily referring to my beloved Traveler, faithful mascot at USC, my alma mater. It came as a bit of a shock.

Oh yeah, I had heard about spyware, malware, and adware. I thought "adware" had something to do with software in the advertising business. "Spyware" obviously had something to do with bad guys getting into my files, probably teenagers living in the basement of their family homes with career goals of "hacker." Who lived to hack. Who engaged in hacking. Oh yeah, I could conjugate "to hack" and use it correctly as a noun in a sentence, too. Hacks!!

"Malware" was -- well, I didn't know what that was. I quickly learned.

It all began when I couldn't log on to Internet Explorer. Or, if I slipped into it, the system crashed. That wouldn't have been so terrible with my other available options like Mozilla Firefox. But, our small business interface with our corporation wouldn't run (and doesn't run now) on anything except Internet Explorer. So, we had to do everything necessary to get Internet Explorer to run again.

My husband is usually capable of diagnosing such problems and magically making them disappear. Of course, it comes with the usual grousing about all things Microsoft. Internet Explorer, Bill Gates, Windows, Microsoft, greed, the end of the world, criminal prosecution. Stuff like that. But, I tolerated the monologues for the sake of computer recovery.

He tried everything. We ran endless cycles of anti-spyware, anti-malware, and anti-adware, which was conveniently name "AdAware." Days went by. Nothing worked. He finally declared that I must save anything I wanted from the hard drive, and he was going to scrub it. Hopefully, it would be usable again.

I don't recall how many hours I spent copying pictures, documents, e-mails, and other sundry stuff onto CD's. It could have been worse -- I had only been on the system for about a year, so I had not even had the time to amass what I would normally store. Meanwhile, Mark continued his research about other possible remedies, and the Microsoft-related grousing continued along with it. He called the Windows "Help" desk multiple times with multiple questions, and no one encouraged us NOT to scrub the hard drive. So, we thought that was the right thing to do.

Meanwhile, we decided that I would trade printers with him because I needed a different color capability for the work I was doing. I finished up all the CDs, and he went upstairs to install the new printer.

Suddenly, I heard him yell, "you have GOT to be kidding!" I wondered what new Microsoft atrocity had been meted upon him. I ran up the stairs.

Sure enough, the simple act of switching printers had identified the Trojan Horse that was causing all the problems. Importantly, once unmasked, the system had "captured" it and asked if we wanted to kill it.

Yes, we really wanted to kill it.

So, we killed it, and everything went back to normal.

Well, except for the fact that I didn't have any files, photos or documents to access directly. But, after almost a week of no progress on the matter, we were appropriately grateful.

After so many days of frustration, it's no wonder we were grateful for a solution. We celebrated like we had found the Holy Grail. It was over!!!

Yes, the problem was solved. But, I celebrated quietly to myself about the best part of the remedy for me.

No more patient head-nodding and tsk-tsking to the sermonette about that evil Bill Gates.

I saw him in person for the first time during the inaugural Softcon in New Orleans at the Louisiana Superdome. It was a few weeks after the national launch of the Apple Macintosh in a :60 spot airing one time on the Superbowl. February, 1984. He was wearing an ill-fitting khaki cotton seersucker suit with dark brown oxfords and a blue tie. His pants hit him just above the ankles, revealing his white crew socks. He was a skinny mess with a haircut that looked like he had done it himself and eyeglasses from the 1970's. He was walking with an equally nerdy-looking fellow who dressed almost the same.

That guy's suit was all-white cotton, with a blue shirt and a navy tie. His pants hit him just above the ankle, too. They looked like a couple of dweebs who had just come out of their high school science club fair, and their goofy smiles suggested they had taken first place.

To be sure. Gates didn't have any social skills, and a lot of people who passed him didn't recognize him. But, they knew his friend.

Steve Jobs was set to make some sort of speech -- not the keynote, but close -- and, they were headed to the event together. They were uneasy colleagues, temporarily bound together by the Macintosh. Jobs trying to assert a different operating system, and Gates throwing himself into the early software as a development partner because he didn't want to miss something big. It wasn't the last time they strode the halls of an electronics show together, but it was close to the last time.

I had a great room in the French Quarter and the opportunity to eat at Paul Prudhomme's K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen and the very famous Commander's Palace. On the last night, I ate somewhere in the French Quarter, and the name of the restaurant escapes me now. I was encouraged to get the house specialty, which was an entire platter of whole shrimp coated in cajun spice.

It went down easy in the Big Easy. And, it almost came up again the next morning when my flight to San Francisco had to descend into Houston for a connection. I remember four things about that trip: the floor of the Superdome, the navy blue pumps that I wore all day, every day, without hurting my feet (youth???); the sight of Gates and Jobs, and the green color of my face on the trip home.

So, it's really hard for me to picture the evil Bill Gates in the context of today and the reality of what happened after that. No matter how many pictures I see of him now, the overview of his incredible property in Washington, or the reports of his personal wealth and foundation exploits, I just can't get that picture of him in New Orleans out of my mind.

He may control my computing life now. But, he sure went a long way, Baby, to get where he got to today.

The archives of TIME still house their story about the first ever national software trade show. The link is not trustworthy. But, if you're interested, search for "The Stepchild Comes of Age" dated March 5, 1984.

Baking with Math & Science

"My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished 2 bags of M&M's and a chocolate cake. I feel better already."
Dave Barry



















It's a wacky world. And getting wackier.

I think a wacky world could use more dessert. It's possible that all the rancor and sniping is sourced from dessert deprivation. Failure to recognize the importance of something sweet in daily life. Erma Bombeck once observed, "....Just think of all those women on the Titanic who said, "No, thank you," to dessert that night. And, for what?!" I think she was on to something. A day without dessert could be your last day with a meal. You just never know.

In the spirit of tripartisanship, I offer a truly egalitarian vision for creative baking that should melt the resolve of even the most hardened pol.


























I give you Neapolitan.

You know it from that brick of ice cream your mother scooped into three magical colors and flavors onto a cone. For the family that couldn't decide what they liked or simply couldn't afford to keep three separate containers of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry on hand. I remember raiding the chocolate stripe to the consternation of others. But, I've matured. I appreciate that the very idea came over here from Naples, Italy and morphed into any three flavors slapped together without a divider.

To my mind, the decision to settle on chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry in America was fortuitous indeed. For one thing, it's pretty. It's like a wedding on a stick. White or creamy white bridal gown, black or dark brown tuxedo for the groom and his men, powder pink for the bridal attendants.

Go to any fast food joint with a milk shake menu, and you can always depend upon those three flavor choices. It's like clockwork. How convenient! Somewhere along the line, these flavors established themselves as timeless. Oreo Cookie, Cookies & Cream, and Coffee may come and go. But, CVS is forever.

The pictures show a couple of techniques for making Neapolitan cupcakes that anyone with a chocolate cake recipe, a vanilla cake recipe, and a strawberry buttercream recipe can recreate. No new recipes are posted here. Just follow the geometry of half chocolate, half vanilla batter in a cupcake cup. Frost with the strawberry, et voila!

Stacking the batter horizontally is simple. Put the chocolate on the bottom and the vanilla on the top.

Splitting chocolate and vanilla vertically takes more precision, but not much more. If your batter is thick, spoon one on the right side of the liner. Then spoon the other one on the left side. If your batter is thin, transfer each batter into its own measuring cup with a pouring spout. Pour each batter simultaneously into the liner, holding one on the left and one on the right. If you've ever had the Half & Half soup at California Pizza Kitchen, you probably figured out how they do that. If not, just use your imagination. Think back to high school science.

A little thing like that hardly scares me. I overcame cake geometry during my Cheesecake Era. At that time, I worked in an office that enjoyed celebrating birthdays. My wonderful group was almost big enough by itself to consume an entire cheesecake. Which was helpful. Baking a cheesecake was dependent upon ensuring that I had no leftovers after I ate my one piece. I experimented with flavors and styles over a few years and raised the bar on myself.

That's when the Neapolitan bullseye was created. I had a recipe that called for the three traditional flavors of cheesecake batter. I made the Chocolate with Godiva Chocolate Liqueur. I made the Vanilla with fresh vanilla beans. I made the Strawberry with Dekuyper Strawberry Passion Schnapps. Any one of these batters as the entirety of the cake would have been fabulous. The directions I was trying to follow called for layering the batters, one on top of the other.

The first time I tried it, a funny thing happened on the way to baking with science. I poured in the chocolate. Then, I layered the vanilla over the chocolate. Then, I layered the strawberry over the vanilla. I baked the cake. When I cut the cake, I could see that the three layers were not in perfect symmetry. The goal had been to achieve the look of the old-timey box of Neapolitan ice cream. It wasn't perfect enough to satisfy my sensibilities about presentation. But, it sure ate good.

Ate good enough to be made again. The second and future times I made this cheesecake, I just went all out with physics. My pea brain remembered enough of the course I had stumbled through at USC to know that I could do something formidable with cheesecake batter.

I poured the chocolate batter from the very center of the pan. I then poured the vanilla batter from the very center of the pan, and it predictably displaced the chocolate batter to the side. Then I poured the strawberry batter from the very center of the pan, and it predictably displaced the vanilla batter to the side. The top of the cheesecake was mostly pink, encircled by a narrow halo of vanilla, which was encircled by a narrow halo of chocolate.

I took it to an office party and put it on the dessert table. When it came time to cut it, I was called forth to do the honors, because nobody wanted any part of serving a cheesecake. To my complete delight and the total confounding of the observers standing around, the slices looked like a miracle of math and science, just like I had planned. Each of the batters curved up toward the top of the slice in a baking freak of nature. The cross section of each slice was both a work of art and a calculated outcome of science.

"How did you do THAT?"

I didn't tell anyone then, but I'm telling you now.

Now, go forth and multiply.

Jumbo Shrimp

"That's not an animal. It's a mammal."
Cafeteria worker serving shrimp at a public high school.

Cold weather reports. Pictures of ice and snow across the country. Notes about power outages. Shivering at the computer in my office. The sun beating through the window in the typical Mile High way of contradiction.

Winter in America.

It usually leads to travel to somewhere. Somewhere warm. Or, at the least, somewhere warmer.

I'm old enough to remember when the promise of travel to a warm place in the winter was considered a business perk. And, it was perfectly legal. Until recently, I didn't live in the kinds of places where this carrot was held out with much gusto, even when it was included in the annual budget. But, all the bailout talk and false bravado flanked by public outrage about companies who followed through with reward trips for sales-oriented people brought to mind the one time that I was called to indulge in this "travesty."

It was a very long time ago. The fact that I could reconstruct the name of the destination and some of the facts about the place is a complete tribute to the internet.

It was about this time of year. It was 1983. Mark and I had been married for about 15 months, and I was doing a brief stint in the family business. The one that he rejected when he entered law school but couldn't avoid for a couple of years after his dad died.

I didn't ask for the trip. In fact, having the same last name as the President of the company made the fact that I was given the trip a bit embarrassing. It was one of those "National Association of Something-Or-Other" annual conventions. One of those things that took you to an exotic location, held you in windowless conference rooms in the name of "education" during the daylight hours for the equivalent of an entire work day, and micro-managed your meager free time within a nanosecond.

This cruel reality didn't change the fact that we were going. And, that we wanted to go. It was cold in Kansas, I had a respiratory condition that wouldn't let go, and it wasn't going to cost us anything.

I was the registered executive, and my husband was the trailing spouse. The list of activities for the "spouses" had probably been composed by a counsel of wives with husbands who either ruled this event or had worked their way up the leadership queue; and, they had finally earned the right to be "Chairwoman" of something.

As you can probably discern already, being the trailing spouse should have been the better of the deal. But, if you happened to be a husband rather than a wife, you were left with the queasy feeling that you were going to be bused on a daily basis to yet another shopping destination, with no hope of escape. Your alternative would be to sleep, read, or hang out in the open air lobby and wait for the meeting czars to release your wife back into the wild.

We were headed to the Cerromar Beach Hotel, which shared a thousand acres ("verdant," according to the travel brochures) with the Dorado Beach Hotel. It was about 22 miles west from San Juan on Puerto Rico's Atlantic coast. This complex was later purchased by Hyatt; the internet informed me that the Cerromar is now out of operation. Apparently, it continued to operate itself into the ground and into disgrace, which is disappointing to learn. But, at the time we were there, it ran almost exclusively on business conference bookings. Not surprisingly, the majority of that business also came from the United States. And, coincidentally, it came to this location when their rates were highest. Makes sense. Charge the highest rates when your services will be most in demand.

The Dorado Beach was actually the older of the two hotels. It was also smaller, about 300 rooms in scattered two- and three-story buildings, more expensive, and more exclusive. The Cerromar Beach had opened about 14 years later, in 1972, with 500 rooms in a seven-story, double Y-shaped building. The Cerromar had the convention facilities.

We flew from Wichita to Miami and switched planes to San Juan. I thought we would never get there. But, after we arrived, I realized that our journey was far from over. What would have been a 30-minute drive at most in the States seemed to take hours through the Puerto Rico countryside. Past filth, poverty, smoking grass fields, and the blank stares of the locals as yet another luxury tour bus made its way past them to a destination they could not afford. We had picked up a few hours in time zone changes, but it was still light when we finally reached the Cerromar.

We checked in, I got my credentials, and we made our way to a room that fit the Caribbean atmosphere. Tile floors, white linens, shuttered sliding doors, the smell of the ocean, and a modest view of it. We were on what was called the "Modified American Plan." At that time, it meant that we could eat everything we could hold from breakfast and lunch buffets. Some of the dinner time was planned, but we could also use any of the restaurants and get a partial dinner credit on our bill.

My primary impression of the Cerromar Beach was formed the next morning over breakfast. The hotel's outdoor Swan Cafe drove the food delivery of this self-contained resort and clearly operated on the principle that more was more. An endless line of tables were laden with half a dozen varieties of juice, a dozen varieties of fruit, hot and cold cereals, pancakes, scrambled eggs, fish, bacon, sausage, ham, yogurt, dozens of breadstuffs (rolls, pastries, bagels, croissants) and cheeses. In addition to the billions of calories on display, there was a menu from which to order anything from a steak to eggs Benedict or waffles. Ironically, a posted sign read ''Do not feed the birds.'' It probably would not have occurred to me to share a cherry Danish with the bold black birds. I tried to resist the idea.

The premises of the Cerromar and the Dorado seemed to contain more sports facilities than a guest could use in a week. Guests at one hotel had access to facilities at the other. Four Robert Trent Jones golf courses (the two at the Dorado Beach were considered among the finest he designed); 21 all-weather tennis courts, bicycling on a meandering two-mile path between the hotels, snorkeling, pool volleyball, Ping-Pong, and the health club.

It wasn't the kind of place for people who wanted a small hotel on a distant island. But, it was remote. We could see a vast panorama of nothingness except for the bluest blue skies and the blue-turquoise-green ribbons of Atlantic Ocean. And the yellowish glare of unobstructed sunshine over the grounds.

The pool was the biggest rectangle I had ever seen, just ahead of a crescent-shaped beach with water in the 90 degree F. range. Tea was served free in the lobby of the Cerromar in the afternoon. But, I didn't get to participate in much of these amenities until my "education" had been completed.

On the other hand, Mark was free to do anything he wanted, so long as he did it alone. He passed on the daily shopping jaunts back into San Juan and waited until the men at the conference were free for golf. Which didn't happen until the last day. But, it did happen; and he could later say he played a Robert Trent Jones course in Puerto Rico.

Our last night at the Cerromar, we skipped the "schedule" where we were supposed to go to a conference dinner and schmooze. We ate at one of the Cerromar restaurants -- I think it was named something like "Costa de Oro." Which would translate to something like "Gold Coast." So, that would fit.

As I usually did whenever we ate anywhere in the world, I turned my entire menu attention to the seafood choices. As he usually did whenever we ate anywhere in the world, Mark turned his entire menu attention to the beef choices. I gave him the "when in Rome" speech, but he would not be moved. He had already consumed enough fruit and seafood that week to last what he thought most certainly represented a lifetime, and he was ready for meat and starch. On the other hand, I had almost made myself sick on the sweetest pineapple I had ever eaten - before or since (and, that includes Hawaii) - but I was ready for more.

I ordered the prawns and a couple of other sides and ensured that more pineapple and strawberries would be coming my way. He ordered filet mignon with a baked potato and choked down a salad to avoid my scolding about no vegetables on his entree.

When the entree plates arrived, I thought I was really in trouble. We hadn't spent much of our own money on the trip, and I knew that we had a dinner credit to apply. But, it seemed that our waiter had mistaken my request for prawns with lobster. Not only that, they had steamed more than one. LOBSTER(S). As I gazed upon the offering of beautiful white seafood on my plate, I was just horrified to think what it was going to cost us.

Looking back on it, it's hard to imagine that I was ever so naive in the culinary department. I've made significant progress since then. I looked pitifully up at the waiter and meekly remarked that I had ordered the prawns.

He replied in a gentle voice and, I thought, a hint of amusement toward his stupid Modified American Plan patron, "....missy, those ARE the prawns!"

Well, they completely filled the plate. All three of them. Perfectly steamed, they had been splayed open and left in the shell. And, the three of them together looked like a bucket of lobsters to me.

It wasn't my world. But, I was welcome to it. Likely, the most delicious prawns -- shrimp -- I would ever eat.

That has proved to be true. And, I don't expect to be going back to a place like that any time soon. Something to do with Government Efficiency, an oxymoron like Cruel Kindness and Jumbo Shrimp.

AQ Q&A

Q: What's the best thing to ever come out of Arkansas?

A: I-40.

Q: Did you hear about the $3,000,000 Arkansas State Lottery?

A: The winner gets $3 a year for a million years.

Q: Why do folks in Arkansas go to the movie theater in groups of 18 or more?

A: 'Cuz 17 and under not admitted.

"Arkansas Jokes"

Q: Where should you go in Arkansas to eat the best fried chicken in the United States?

A: Highway 71B.

Q: What if your husband thinks that Stroud's in Kansas City is the best fried chicken in the United States?

A: Drive him to Springdale, Arkansas and order the Original AQ Pan Fried Chicken, along with a side of real mashed potatoes and seasoned green beans. Tie him to the chair and make him eat until he cries "Uncle." Wheel him to the car and smile, knowingly.

I hope I'm right about that. It's been a very long time since I ate that one and only time at AQ Chicken in Springdale, Arkansas. It's one of those flavors that I keep in my head -- I can taste it in my brain -- and I know that I have not tasted it since. Since sometime in the late 1960's. It certainly left an impression on me.

My mother used to make fried chicken in a great, big cast iron skillet. She'd scoop the Crisco out of the can with a big spoon, and I can still remember the sound from the bang, bang of the handle against the side of the pan when she plopped the fat into it. I'm not sure how she made the crust, but milk and cracker crumbs were probably involved. Somewhere along the way, we stopped eating the amazing things that came out of that pan of iron and hydrogenated cottonseed oil. Something about fat, saturated fat, solid shortening, heart disease. Stuff like that.

Of all the ways I have ever prepared chicken, fried in Crisco in a cast iron skillet isn't one of them. I know I have probably missed the essential American culinary experience. But, most of me doesn't care. I hold back on this maligned dish until I can get to one of the few places in the country that still makes it like they do at AQ. By my calculation, that happens about two or three times per decade. I just ate at Stroud's over the Memorial Day weekend in 2006. So, I'm not really due for more for about five years now.

Oh well. I can still taste it in my memory. I don't have to ingest those pesky calories from fat.

But, I've been looking at possible new career opportunites and find myself strangely drawn to anything with the words "Wal-Mart headquarters" in the job description. That would be Fayetteville, Arkansas.

I'm like Pavlov's Dog. Every time I read the word "Fayetteville," my nose starts to twitch.

Must be the aroma of that pan fried chicken wafting over the years.

http://www.aqchickenhouse.net/

No Hassle at All

In my pursuit of cuisine around the world, I must admit that the traditional food of one country in particular has generally left me cold. Pickled, boiled, fermented, and overly-spiced, too. But, mostly, cold.

Fortunately, even Sweden can't ruin a potato. At least, not every time out. Good to know, because I have an empty file folder for Sweden, and it might fill fast now that I've connected the dots between Sweden and Hasselback Potatoes.

Not Elizabeth Hasselbeck. Hasselback. As in Hasselback Hotel in Stockholm, Sweden. As in the restaurant named "Hasselbacken" where Hasselback Potatoes were first served.

I had completely forgotten about Hasselback Potatoes. I had seen them before and even made them before. It's just that the word "Hasselback" didn't get the necessary attribution to make the mental connection in whatever recipe I used.

During a TV lull one Saturday morning, I caught the middle of Sunny Anderson's "Cooking for Real." It was the "Bistro Night In" episode, where I also picked up a great 30-minute brine solution for chicken. While she was prepping the potatoes, I remembered that I had made them before, but I recalled something in the "time-consuming" and "frustrating" category.

She had a great trick. She was using red new potatoes -- not the big russets I had used -- about the size of a large wooden spoon bowl. And, the trick to cutting each potato without slicing all the way through it was to place it in the bowl of the wooden spoon and cut until the wood stopped the knife. Brilliant! I ran to the website and printed out all the recipes.

I bought a bunch of beautiful red potatoes just around New Years, and they sat on the counter for days. Finally the night arrived, and I made my regular roasted new potatoes for the rest of the family, but made two whole potatoes for myself in the Hasselback style.

All I can say is, the house smelled like a high-end bistro, and the potatoes were amazing. After roasting for an hour, the result was crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. This recipe is a keeper.

Frankly, this recipe is a keeper largely because of garlic and sour cream. Not that the other Hasselback Potatoes recipes out there lack merit. Some of them are probably very good. Especially the ones that call for loading bread crumbs cut with parmesan cheese over the top. I will conduct rigorous kitchen testing and report back. (Insert smiley face here.)

But, if you like the smell of roasting garlic in your home, do the Hasselback posted here.

It's well worth the after-dinner breath mint.

Garlic Hasselback Potatoes with Herbed Sour Cream

Makes 4 servings

16 ounces red new potatoes

3 to 5 garlic gloves, thinly sliced

4 tbsp. butter, melted

2 tbsp. olive oil

Salt and freshly ground pepper

Herbed Sour Cream (recipe follows)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Using a wooden spoon as a cradle, place each potato in the spoon and make several parallel slits into each potato top, making sure not to slice completely through. Place 3 garlic slices between slits at the crown of each potato. Toss in a medium bowl with butter and olive oil. Place on a baking sheet and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper. Bake until tops are crispy and potatoes are cooked through, about 1 hour. Transfer to a platter and top with Herbed Sour Cream.

Herbed Sour Cream

1/2 cup sour cream

1/2 tsp. garlic powder

1 tbsp. finely chopped fresh parsley leaves

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Combine ingredients in a small bowl. Season to taste, and refrigerate until ready to use.

Bacon is the New Black

"I like bacon, I like chocolate, I like cupcakes. So - why not?"

Tee & Cakes customer; Boulder, Colorado

I guess the media has been busy with other subjects, because it took the local CBS affiliate until January 10, 2009 to post the story about bacon cupcakes in Boulder.

What happens in Boulder usually doesn't stay in Boulder. But, even Boulder can't take credit for any of the following: (1) cupcake craze; (2) fat fad renewed by the revival of bacon in society; (3) realization that, theoretically, anything can be poured into a cupcake cup, baked in the oven, and consumed by somebody, somewhere.

Yes, folks -- bacon cupcakes aren't a new idea, at least not new in the past year or so. If you're been paying attention for even half a second to your daily cupcake news, you already know that. Know that just the presence of maple frosting in a bakery environment took someone in the direction of pork products.

So, When Pigs Fly cannot sit on the story any longer, either. The recipe posted today is taking the cupcake blogosphere by storm. It's not the recipe for the Tee & Cakes bacon cupcake, because that one hasn't made its way into the public arena. But, it will -- eventually. Their cake is pictured at the bottom -- the maple syrup cake with chocolate ganache and chopped bacon on the top. If you want that one, you're on your own. You can probably just take the cake part of the posted recipe and coat it in chocolate, cover it in chopped bacon, and land close enough for government work.

This recipe hasn't been adjusted for altitude problems. So, if you live above 3,000 feet, you're on your own for that, too.

But, I thought it was the civic duty of a blog dedicated to flying pork product to notify anyone out of the loop.

You can have your cupcake. And your bacon. And eat it, too.


Bacon Cupcakes

4 1/2 Tbsp. of butter, room temperature
1/2 Tbsp. of bacon drippings (left in the fridge to become solid)
5 Tbsp. of brown sugar
1 egg
1-1/4 cup of all purpose flour
1 tsp. of baking soda
1/2 tsp. of baking powder
tiny pinch of kosher salt
4 Tbsp. maple syrup
1/4 cup of milk
1/4 cup of minced bacon, cooked and drained

Cook some bacon in a fry pan (about 6 thick strips). Reserve the drippings and place in the fridge to solidify. Mince 1/4 cup of the bacon. The chef should eat whatever is left to ensure that the bacon is tasty.

Beat the crud out of the butter and solidified bacon fat 'til light and creamy. Add the brown sugar and beat well until combined. Add the egg and beat until incorporated.

Sift the flour, salt, baking soda and powder together. Combine the milk and maple syrup. Alternate additions of half of the flour, half of the liquid, the remaining flour, and finally the remaining liquid, mixing each addition just until combined. Fold in the bacon bits. Scoop into cupcake papers and bake at 350 F for 18-22 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Maple Syrup Frosting

4 Tbsp. of butter
2 Tbsp. of maple syrup
1 cup of powdered sugar
turbinado sugar (optional, but recommended)
coarse grain sea salt (optional, but recommended)

Combine the syrup and butter until combined. Add the sugar, a bit at a time, and whip at high speeds until combined. Pipe or spread onto cupcakes. Sprinkle on sea salt and turbinado sugar for decoration and a lot of added flavor.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out!

“And remember, where you have a concentration of power in a few hands, all too frequently men with the mentality of gangsters get control. History has proven that. All power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

John Emerich Edward Dalberg-Acton, 1st Baron Acton, a.k.a. Lord Acton; 1834-1902


Wow, has it ever been a long week. Friday always brings a certain level of exhaustion with it, regardless of whatever Monday through Thursday demanded. But, this particular Friday feels like it took a month to get here.

I suppose the weather is partly to blame. We've had every one of the four seasons in residence at some point during the week, ending this afternoon on a cold, gloomy note. More emblematic of the winter promised by the calendar. On the day after all the remaining snow and ice from the last storm finally melted away, we're told to prepare for more. No problem.

I might find myself spending the day indoors tomorrow, but I will have plenty of laundry to keep me busy. I know what I won't be doing. Any television channel set to broadcast anything about the nation or the world is going to get the old, heave-ho tomorrow.

I'm checking out. I'm dropping out of the system. I've had enough. I don't want to hear another word about stimulus, which is actually French for taxandspendit.

I don't want to hear another word about childish things, including such phrases as: "Na-na-na-NA-na, I WON!"

I don't want to hear another word about cards. Race cards, gender victim cards, plot cards, fear cards.

I don't want to hear yet another story about a really rich person somewhere on the East Coast who rants and raves about our healthcare system, but employs illegal aliens or immigrants for cash and doesn't provide health insurance. Or, only pays their back taxes because they are a designated Cabinet member and must go before a Senate Subcommittee. And, then blames Turbo Tax for oversights dating back seven years.

Time to bake more cupcakes.

Search My Location

"To keep your secret is wisdom; but to expect others to keep it is folly."

Samuel Johnson, English author, 1709-1784

My separation from my Blackberry was one Cold Turkey day in October of 2006. I didn't have much time to mourn the loss, and it didn't take me any longer to determine that I wasn't going to replace it. I didn't need it enough to justify paying for it myself. And, I had permitted it to interrupt too many family dinners over the years to feel good about inviting the temptation right back in after it had been so summarily ushered out.

During ensuing days, I became increasingly conscious of bad public electronic device usage by people who, in all likelihood, thought they exhibited decorum and professionalism of the highest order. I didn't want any part of it. I don't want any part of it now.

I possessed a Blackberry for enough years to develop the signature cramped thumbs and unshakeable, strong inner voice that life -- at least, business life -- was no longer possible without the wonderful black box that brought e-mail and internet access to me 24/7. Everywhere I traveled.

Except, of course, any place I traveled that lacked the necessary radio signal reception to conduct the transactions. The seemingly innocent little box also didn't work inside any buildings with solid block outside walls or lots of triple-paned glass (except right by the windows). So, I had a fairly good sense of how things came and went from the box, and I knew when I didn't have a signal because it had the one-to-five bars like we have on our cell phones.

I didn't give it that much thought then, and I haven't given it that much thought since. Until I read so much about how President Obama was insisting that he had to keep his Blackberry. The whole debate seemed to center around concerns for secure messaging, content, confidentiality, etc. And, certainly, those topics would be of supreme concern for someone in that position. I figured that he would need to change his behavior about subject matter and who was on the receiving end of his messages. And, I assumed that he can do that.

Today's reports say that, not only will he have an extremely secure device, he will modulate his use of it to casual communication among staffers and the like. The time has come and gone to argue that he should adjust to his new office and kick this addiction. That, surely, the most powerful nation on the planet can offer a suitable alternative to his insistence that he keep this appliance and, thereby, mitigate all the mounting concerns.

I don't know if that will prove to be true. But, I'm worried about something completely unrelated to that. I've even surfed the net to learn what I can about my concern.

Which is, of course, the radio signal itself. Clearly, I'm no scientist. But, my little pea brain keeps telling me that a radio signal-controlled form of communication on something as now-simple as a Blackberry is nothing more than a homing device. To track his every move.

I've read the arguments that his schedule and travel is a matter of public record. If someone really wants to find him, they can do it, blah, blah, blah. I'm hoping that someone with a couple of Ph.Ds in Blackberry has already satisfied the question that keeps running a loop through my head.

That is, if someone wants to target him personally in the nuclear age, can there be a better way to do it than to lock onto the signal emanating from the little black box hanging from his belt clip?

Please. Say it ain't so.

Sing, Sing a Song

"I have met charming people, lots who would be charming if they hadn't got a complex about the British and everyone has pleasant and complex manners and I like most of the American voices. On the other hand, I don't believe they have any God and their hats are frightful. On balance, I prefer the Arabs."

Freya Stark, French adventurer and explorer (1893-1993)

You didn't think I was going to comment on Michelle's wardrobe pressures and the wee-Michelle's brand commitment to J. Crew and not devote a post to The Hat.

Maybe you weren't born in 1956. Back when no woman of any color went to church of any kind without a hat. I think I might have even been born wearing a hat.

The early pictures of me show hats of many sorts and colors. Of course, those photos are primarily in black and white; so, it's been a challenge to keep the memory based on my parents remarks about the meaning and occasion of those toppers.

Jackie Kennedy might have been viewed as America's icon of style in 1960. But, as far as I was concerned, that label belonged to my own mother. She was 5 feet, 10 inches tall. She wore high-heeled pumps, three or four inches tall, and she had great legs. Those shoes made her the same height as my dad. Then, she sometimes plunked a hat on her head that pushed her two to three inches above him. And, she stood up straight.

My message to all Tall Girls everywhere, whether you live in the White House or the outhouse, is to stand up straight. Nothing says "I wish I wasn't so tall" as hunched shoulders, that lean to the left, or a droopy head. Who cares if your tall husband is vertically challenged by your shoes, your hair, or your hat. Pick it up, stay on straight, and push your chin out a bit if you must. You cannot hide your height under a paper bag.

You're not fooling anybody.

Hello.

They're not going to think he is taller or you are shorter when you slouch around like that.

But, back to my mother. Since tall women in 2009 still experience challenges in the clothes-shopping department, it's a wonder that the home-sewing industry is really dead.

D-E-A-D, dead.

In 1960, my mother made her own Sunday clothes. She made my clothes, and she later made clothes for my baby sister after she arrived. Sure, we visited department stores and knew that clothes could come from such a place, but I'm not certain that we owned any store-bought Sunday clothes until we were young teenagers. And, we were best-dressed. Always.

My mother made dresses. But, for herself, she also made suits. That might seem remarkable standing on its own; and, it was. But, what was remarkable by today's standards -- and, it was considered remarkable then as well -- is that she made matching hats for those suits. I'm sure I wasn't the only girl in America in the sixties who had a mother so talented. But, she was the only one I knew. I remember going to the yard goods store just to look at hat forms.

When we shopped at Jordan Marsh, the premium department store of its day where we lived in Orlando, Florida, I would often separate from my parents. I spent some quality time in the toy department, to be sure; they had penny candy, too. So, it was a big deal. But, sometimes I would disappear from the toy department to the place of my adult dreams. I wasn't supposed to be there. And, I wasn't supposed to sample the merchandise. But, I couldn't help myself. It was just too wonderful.

This Magic Place was also known as "Millinery."

I haven't written "millinery" in so long, I had to look it up.

Ladies' Hats.

The Hat Department.

I was eager to participate in this Festival of Womanhood. This hat-wearing thing that was going to be mine when I grew up.

But, a funny thing happened on the way to Tip Toppers Club.

These beautiful, creative head warmers in every fabric known to man and every color in God's rainbow fell out of fashion. The Women's Movement didn't do much to help the hat industry. And, once it was clear that wearing trousers wasn't a felony, they didn't always seem necessary.
Hair got to be a much bigger deal. I blame girls like Farrah Fawcett and Dorothy Hamill for it. But, it was certainly true that a hat didn't do much for those hairstyles, especially after you removed it.

I held on to the dream for a while. I lived in southern California, but I had a camel wool trenchcoat and a matching camel wool hat that Ingrid Bergman might have envied. I had a dark red pantsuit that worked really well on Rose Bowl game day. I had a matching plush felt fedora with a big, white weather sticking out the side. I had a dark green hat and other such things that have long since been forgotten. If there wasn't a photo ever taken of it, it's almost like it might not have existed.

When it came time to select my headgear for our wedding in 1981, I went straight to the hats. Selections were limited, but I wasn't going to wear a veil at what might prove to be my last chance in life to wear a hat. I chose the best one available and had that 1940's birdcage veiling sewn on the front to chin length.

In the past couple of decades, hats have been risky business. I don't think the First Lady of the United States has ventured near a hat since Hillary Clinton wore that saucer shape at Bill's first Inauguration. A bit more wind, and she would have launched over Washington, D.C. like Mary Poppins. Some people would have enjoyed that. But, I would have mourned the role the hat played in her humiliation. Her humiliation at just wearing the thing in the first place was revisited in the press after Tuesday's events. All because of one woman.

Aretha may not have rendered "My Country 'Tis of Thee" in her best form, but she was dressed (and covered up, thank you so much) to the nines. I could hardly stay focused on the music for gaping at The Hat. She clearly doesn't sing well in the cold. Who would??!! And, any detractors about her choice of The Hat need to take a pill. She can wear any dang hat she wants. I still love "Freeway of Love," and I consider The Hat to just be the Hat version of the Pink Cadillac.

Her image conjured hats, church, Sundays, and the need to mark really special occasions with a once-in-a-lifetime hat better than anything or anyone could do on January 20, 2009.

Thanks to the magic of technology, Mr. Song and his company on Woodward Avenue in Detroit, Michigan couldn't watch the Inauguration on Tuesday for answering the phone. I'm not going to order Aretha's hat. I just can't carry it like she did. The other side of technology magic permitted me to try it on. And, frankly, I can see that it's just not "me."

I also see by the internet that I have many, many other options. Selecting a hat over the web wouldn't have the same visceral thrill as buying one after trying it on in that now-extinct Ladies' Hat Department at Jordan Marsh.

But, I'm thinking I should bone-up on the matter. Someone could call me at any minute, to appear at something special. Whatever I could do well, could probably be accomplished even better with a hat. A Great Hat. Not a Cat-in-the-Hat stupid kind of hat.

A Hat like That.

http://www.mrsongmillinery.com/

The Weather Up There

"As to matters of dress, I would recommend one never to be first in the fashion nor the last out of it."

John Wesley - Founder of Methodism 1703-1791

Everyone's a critic. Fashion pundits - people who are supposed to know what they're talking about - and just regular men and women everywhere had something to say about Mrs. Obama's wardrobe choices yesterday. Not all of it was positive.

Without unanimous consent among the pundits and the populace, her most ardent fans have nonetheless declared Michelle O. to be the "new" Jackie O. But, I know that can't be true. It's not that she's unworthy in any regard. It's not that her position as First Lady of the United States doesn't provide sufficient platform to change the way American women dress in the 21st Century. No, it has nothing to do with anything that anyone is thinking about.

Not even Stacy London. The engaging hostess of "What Not to Wear" was on the right track when she noted that the extraordinary lemongrass ensemble chosen by Mrs. Obama for the Inauguration Day ceremonies and festivities was a color that few women on the planet can wear successfully. That observation is salient. In our own family, no one can successfully wear any shade of yellow near the face. We just don't have the right combination of hair, eye, and skin tones to pull it off.

Mrs. Obama wore a color that both remarkably held the day and changed color with changing light. It was also a color that will likely prove to be uniquely her own. So, even if a lot of manufacturers rush to copy it for the little people, any of those girls actually paying attention will quickly see in the dressing room that it makes them look like they either just lost their lunch or have a liver disorder.

But, No. The color of that ensemble or any of her Inauguration weekend clothing is beside the point. Michelle Obama can wear every color of the rainbow, or no color at all. She wears white as well as turquoise.

Michelle O. will never be Jackie O. Michelle O. is the New Michelle O.

Because Michelle O. is the New Tall Girl.

I know something about being the New Tall Girl. Granted, I have never played this part in the glare of the international media. Actually, Michelle O. would not be able to look me in the eye, unless she brought along those teal-colored Jimmy Choo pumps she wore yesterday. They appeared to have heels in the two-inch range. At 5 feet, 11 inches tall, Mrs. Obama would still be shorter than me in those Jimmy Choos. But, it would be close enough.

I laugh when I read about how Jackie Kennedy was described at the time as "tall, long and lean." Some people think she was about 5 feet, 6 inches tall. Since the average American woman is still only about 5 feet, 4 inches tall, it's not surprising that Mrs. Kennedy was considered tall in 1960. She was probably viewed as a physical giant among women. But, even if I concede that she was "tall" by any standard, I cannot argue that she was "lean." She had the small bones and frame of a French woman living on cigarettes and bottled water. It's no coincidence that the word "mannequin" is the French derivative of the word from Dutch/German that means "little man."

It wasn't particularly fashionable to be an athletic woman in that era, either. I don't have a vision of her working out every day of a Hawaii vacation at the nearest military gym.

No, not only is Michelle Obama capable of carrying any color in the spectrum, she is now closer to "impossibly tall" than any First Lady in modern history. She has an athletic frame, and no one will ever describe her as "small-boned."

As a woman whose final adult height has been 6 feet, 2 inches for a long time, I'm very interested in her wardrobe decisions now. I'm not going out to replace my closet any time soon, but I already know that the number of women who can really emulate her are -- while not as rare as in 1960 -- still a definite minority. So far, it's rare when I see two consecutive things on her that I even like or that I think look good on her. But, I'm intrigued at the range of things she tries. She's going to have hits and misses. She has a lot to learn, but she'll learn quickly.

When she sees the video of herself holding the lemongrass coat together while she tried to walk, hold hands with her husband, and wave, she'll probably ask someone to adjust something in the future. When she sees the video of herself constantly hoisting up the back of her Inaugural Ball gown behind her every time her husband stepped on her hem, she'll make a mental note of it.

She will hit her stride. She won't hit it anytime soon. But, I am confident she will; and, she'll do it in the same kind of fashionable leather flats that I have been wearing unapologetically since I gave up the Nordstrom suits, silk stockings and high-heeled suede pumps of a business world almost forgotten.

Meanwhile, the "wee-Michelles," as her daughters are sometimes lovingly referred to in the fashion press, made more impact on my particular household yesterday than she did. Not for nothing had I noted during the train ride on Saturday that the girls appeared to be outfitted in clothing that definitely resembled the selections from J. Crew's Crewcuts line. Then, the video of the Sunday event at the Lincoln Memorial came over the wire. And, I was fairly certain I was looking at the next generation of Crewcuts coats that wouldn't be available to the public until whatever date J. Crew plans to release their Fall 2009 collection.

I don't have children of this age in my household anymore; so, ordinarily, I wouldn't have a reason to even be conscious of this line. Ordinarily, I wouldn't know anything about it.

But, coincidentally, our older daughter decided to move over from Banana Republic to J. Crew for her Christmas holiday work period. At 5 feet, 11-1/2 inches tall with small bones and a longer, leaner frame than Jackie Kennedy could have ever imagined in her wildest dreams, she was a walking model of J. Crew clothing on the sales floor. She contributed to a seasonal sales contest and earned herself a free pair of $325 double-faced leather boots from Italy. To say she is in her element at J. Crew is to vastly understate the obvious.

As soon as the Obama daughters were taped walking down the hall to enter the dais with their grandmother, my "dress for success" brain cells fired off a message. "Isn't that Heather Majestic Purple on Malia??"

How could I know that.

I'm not a public figure. I'll never be First Lady of the United States of America.

But, I have a Tall Girl in the White House today. And, she and I both have two daughters. And, we both have a daughter with a coat from J. Crew, cut from Heather Majestic Purple wool double cloth and trimmed with silk grosgrain ribbon on the lining.

The wee-Michelles stole the show. Isn't that always the way? Everybody wants to know what you're going to wear on the biggest day of your life -- so far -- and the two little girls -- one standing on a step stool -- during the Oath of Office -- hit the ball out of the park.

One thing is certain. If my life is any indication -- and judging from the height of 10-year-old Malia (who didn't need a step stool), I'm guessing that it is -- Sasha won't need a step stool much longer.

It's just a matter of time.