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.

Choose Ye

"Choose Ye," The Winans with Vanessa Bell Armstrong:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDWuSvjkwo4

Joshua 24:14-16 - King James:

14 "Now therefore fear the LORD, and serve him in sincerity and in truth: and put away the gods which your fathers served on the other side of the flood, and in Egypt; and serve ye the LORD.

15 And if it seem evil unto you to serve the LORD, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.

16 And the people answered and said, God forbid that we should forsake the LORD, to serve other gods...."

Be Vewy Vewy Qwiet

Jill Tracy Jacobs Biden is better known as Jill Biden.

Dr. Jill Biden.

Well, she's actually better known as the wife of Vice-President Elect Joe Biden. But, Dr. Jill Biden is also known as a veteran educator. She's been a professor at Delaware Technical Community College, with a Ph.D in Education. No slouch. And, no entitled woman either, since it's been reported that she turned down four offers from prestigious four-year institutions to devote her teaching energy to a community college in Washington, D.C.

She seems a bit like the forgotten spare tire on the back of the Barack-Michelle-Joe tricycle of media personalities in the news this week. But, one day ahead of her important moment on camera tomorrow -- to hold the Bible for Joe's oath of office -- she has taken top billing now on internet news sites and blogs everywhere.

Fashion pundits and groupies around the globe have been holding their collective breath about what Michelle Obama will wear to the Inauguration tomorrow. And, more importantly, what she will wear to the Balls tomorrow night. Apparently Barbara Walters stamped the matter with the idea that our very future as a nation depends upon her choice when she said today, "...I think you can tell what the administration is going to be like by what the First Lady wears."

No pressure!

The double-secret decision about designer, style and color is being held under cloak of privacy until tomorrow.

No pressure! It had better be a good one!

But, I haven't been hearing anyone clamoring about what Dr. Jill is going to do next, what Dr. Jill is going to wear next, or what Dr. Jill is going to say next.

That might change after today. She let the "cat" outta the bag on the "Oprah" taping and told the universe that Joe had his choice between Vice President and Secretary of State in the Obama Administration. For that, she got a very loud "Shhh" from Joe.

I don't know if it was a put-up job -- sometimes people feign shock about something that was carefully planned and scripted in advance. But, what happened after she uttered this revelation took me right to the Comcast commercials for high-speed internet. If they run in your market, then you know Bill & Karolyn Slowsky, the spokesturtles who prefer the much slower DSL. In their most recent appearance, they're discussing the matter in a movie theatre.

I thought about what Dr. Jill could have replied to Joe with that infamous line by Bill -- "did you just SHUSH me??!!" But, thinking about Joe Biden for just one more nanosecond, I realized that Dr. Jill's best response would have been Bill's second line.

"WE GOT A REAL TALKER OVER HERE!!!"

Yep, we got a real talker over there.

If you haven't seen the spot, here it is through the magic of Youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fGBgxU-rdM

Ready for Their Close-up

"To re-create the array of shades on the cover, divide a batch of buttercream and tint each portion, using the photograph as a guide. These colors were achieved by mixing shades of gel-paste food coloring, including deep pink, dusty rose, egg yellow, lemon yellow, mauve, orange, peach, sky blue, and violet."

Martha Stewart Living, February, 2009, "Mini Chocolate Cupcakes with Multicolored Frosting"

The ladies who run the blog "Cupcakes Take the Cake" are only a few days behind me about Martha's February, 2009 issue. They have a good excuse -- they were busy at the taping of Martha's upcoming cupcake showcase, scheduled for January 21. (Please check your local listings!)

Unlike When Pigs Fly, they are All Cupcakes, All the Time. They took the time to photograph the cover I gushed about, as well as the entire article inside.

Martha's website still hasn't moved beyond the January issue; but with the upcoming cupcake extravaganza planned for television, your wait is almost over.

http://cupcakestakethecake.blogspot.com/2009/01/more-martha-y-goodness.html

All You Can Eat

"Tangerine, she is all they claim
With her eyes of night and lips as bright as flame
Tangerine, when she dances by,
Senoritas stare and caballeros sigh
And I've seen toasts to Tangerine
Raised in every bar across the Argentine
Yes, she has them all on the run,
But her heart belongs to just one
Her heart belongs to Tangerine"


Frank Sinatra, April 11, 1962, Los Angeles



For a long time, I didn't like fresh cherries. Well, I didn't think I liked fresh cherries. I can't explain it; I just know that it was true.


One day, I woke up and didn't just like fresh cherries. I LOVED fresh cherries! As with other food dislikes that seemed to become total distractions overnight, I was quickly struck by the irony. God decided long before I was born that fresh cherry season in the United States would only be about eight weeks long. I had wasted precious years. By the time I realized that I really loved fresh cherries, I had already missed about 256 weeks of fresh cherry seasons. That was almost five years of available fresh cherry-eating that had passed me by. That I had permitted to pass me by.


Like most things in the body, the human physiology of taste is remarkably complex. It's tied to the sense of smell; and the location and function of taste buds change from birth to adulthood. I think. I have used that excuse to rationalize why my children rejected or accepted certain foods while they were little, then suddenly announced that they either did or did not like those things now. With mock horror that I could be so unaware and the requisite eye-rolling.


Along the way, I stopped trying to keep an updated inventory of their food preferences. We ate what we ate, and they never seemed to go hungry. I must admit that, at one time, I was certain Meredith considered chicken nuggets to be a food group unto themselves. I envisioned chicken nuggets as the entree at her future wedding reception. Along with her condiment of choice -- ketchup. Also a discrete food group.


That she now works part-time at Chick-fil-A was likely foreshadowed from an early age. She gets it honest. I could eat chicken at every meal and be perfectly satisfied.


It's often been said by mothers across the country that if their children get hungry enough, they'll eat anything. I don't know. We're very blessed to have never truly encountered that life-altering scenario. But, it is true that taste changes over time, and with advancing age. It changes according to its environment, and once your child moves away from home and eats in a dorm cafeteria or is forced to eat her own cooking, changes can occur quite rapidly.


Peer pressure also helps. After Shannon transferred from USC to Nebraska, she was chastised by her new soccer teammates at the training table about the lack of fruit on her plate. Ironic for a girl born and raised in California. But, I didn't have to say anything about it anymore. About a dozen women in the 18-22 age group took care of it for me. That doesn't mean that she immediately started eating every kind of fruit that was offered in the athletes-only dining room. But, she did try some things and ate more of the ones she did like. Whatever it takes.

So, I couldn't help but run a quick trip down memory lane yesterday when I got the following text from this darling daughter: "Mmmmm. I love tangerines!"

I remembered all those orange slices on her high chair tray that were left behind. Not from the beginning, but from about age 18 months. All those carefully-sliced orange slices available during AYSO soccer halftimes, from about age 6 to age 9, that she would not eat. All those carefully-sliced orange slices available during club soccer halftimes, from about age 10 to age 18, that she would not eat. All those carefully-sliced orange slices that somebody prepared in the back of an SUV in Oahu, at great expense, during Far West Regionals in 2003. That she would not eat.

It seems the breakthrough started when she was showing me the pictures of one of the snowboarding trips during this Christmas break. While stuck in complete-stop traffic on I-70 west, she had consumed what she called "a baby orange." She had photographed the skin on a napkin as both proof and a work of art. It was on the trip thanks to Stephanie, her friend from high school, and a former employee of Whole Foods. Working at a place like that, you see a lot of fresh produce. You see a lot of fruit. You see a lot of fruit that you can't get other places.


But, a baby orange?


I was perplexed. If such a thing exists, why don't I already know about it??! I'M the foodie in this family, and I can't imagine that my child might make a food discovery that I don't already know about.


I suggested that this piece of fruit was actually a tangerine.


"No, Mom! It was a baby orange." Importantly, she loved it. Whatever it was.


Frankly, the only "baby orange" I could recall in my pea brain was the skin condition caused by consumption of too much beta carotene.

And, it's true that -- thanks to cultivating practices -- "baby" anything is possible in most matters relating to food actually sourced from nature. Baby carrots in the grocery store used to really BE baby carrots. And, in some specialty stores and some parts of the country, they still are that thing. Unfortunately, however, the name "baby carrot" is also used to label a product that is really shaved down from a bigger carrot. It's size, taste, texture and color bear no resemblance to REAL baby carrots.


People who ship citrus from Florida to friends and family, and to themselves, can buy things like Baby Valencias, Baby Temples, and Baby Honeybell Tangelos. But, only one of these three items is really an "orange" in the sense that it's only an orange. That would be, of course, the Baby Valencia. The Baby Temple is a cross between an orange and a tangerine. The name "Honeybell" is a variety; and the tangelo is, of course, a cross between a tangerine and either a pomelo or a grapefruit.

Are these distinctions with a difference or distinctions without a purpose? I don't know. I just wanted to know what Shannon really ate, because she liked it. When a family member discovers that they like something that is actually good for them, I'm interesting in reinforcing the behavior.

I guess it really doesn't matter at all. She's eating fruit. It's orange. She really likes it. So, she's probably going to do it again. At least for the remaining four to eight weeks of "baby orange" season.

New York State of Mind

"Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger III is being hailed across America after heroically landing his disabled US Airways jet in the Hudson River. All 155 passengers on board the “Miracle on the Hudson” survived."

www.foxnews.com, January 16, 2009

I had that sinking feeling again. Over a late lunch, my TV news had broken into discouraging "stimulus package" reports with a very early headline about a plane going down in Manhatten.

Since September 11, 2001, no American with an engaged brain can hear a headline like that and avoid the adrenaline rush attached to the possibility that something terror-related has happened there again. That's true for me. And, I was 3000 miles from 9/11, in the relative safety of suburban San Francisco.

We certainly altered our pattern of behavior that day, after Shannon begged her dad not to go downtown to his high-rise office building for work. He wasn't planning to do that anyway, since he was already scheduled to make the trip to Indianapolis to see his dying mother. That didn't happen. As the week unfolded, he couldn't even get a single plane ticket out of the Bay Area to attend his mother's funeral. We will always have a link in our broken hearts between our personal tragedy and our national tragedy. Her funeral was held on the same day as our National Day of Mourning.

But, nothing in me can ever match the panic and fear that inevitably sets into the hearts of New Yorkers when any accident involving a jetliner occurs in or near their area code. The interviews yesterday among the eyewitnesses near the corner of 48th and the Hudson River confirmed it. No matter what they do now, their first thought is to process whether what they are seeing or hearing could possibly involve a terrorist, a plane full of innocent people on their way to death, and a high-rise building.

We're having incredibly favorable weather in the Denver metro area this week, after the one day of pouring down snow. It works that way here, and I still haven't figured it out after six years. But, I knew that the people stranded in the Hudson River weren't so lucky on this day. Just like 9/11, when all I could think about was how many people must have been in that skyscraper that just disintegrated to the ground, I wondered how many minutes remained for people to escape this enormous, sinking bathtub of horror.

It was not lost on me that the final address to the Nation by President George W. Bush was scheduled for 6 p.m. Mountain. On a day when a lot of Americans still haven't figured out why they owe him their respect. On a day when New York City was once again in the news around the world. This time, for something amazing, with a happy ending. For something involving a man in the pilot's seat whose life is forever altered beyond his imagination. For good. A quiet man whose current family home resides in Danville, a town in the East Bay of California that I know exceedingly well. Who started his educational journey down the road from my current home, at the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

The New York pride in its first responders was once again expanded to include people on commute ferries and practically anyone on the Hudson with a boat. Rightfully so. In a strange way, New Yorkers and Americans needed this story.

Maybe the next time a story like this hits the breaking news desk, our first thought will consider what incredible, miraculous, calming set of facts will eventually emerge.

We can Hope.

Sign Me Up!

The excitement is building in Cincinnati once again. We're getting closer and closer to the 11th Annual Flying Pig Marathon weekend. Circle the dates: May 1-3, 2009.

I just received the January issue of The Squeal by e-mail, and I'm interested to learn that The Flying Pig Marathon is still my best marathon value. It's true. Thanks to the prestigious list of Flying Pig Marathon sponsors, I can do the full marathon experience for only $60. That includes the great runner's gear bag and what is described as the "coolest" winner's medal. Ever. If I'm watching my running dollars, then this event will be a great place to invest in my sport.

"Not a runner? Not a problem - volunteer instead!"

Well, that's certainly a relief. They wear pink tutus, pink pig ears, and hand out water to the running pigs, among other things. I could do that.

But, I don't run marathons and I don't live within driving distance of Cincinnati, Ohio.

Well, I can show my commitment by purchasing the 2009 "Pig in Training" shirt. Post holiday pig-out, that could work. I don't really have anything reserved in my budget for a cute pink shirt with a witty slogan, even if it's pig-related. So, it's also enticing to learn that the "Pigged Out" section (the clearance part of the online store) has too many items to list at 50% off. I bet.

But, don't forget that all my purchases would support the Flying Pig charities.

Wow! It's a really long and impressive list. They have contributed more than $7.2 million over their previous ten years.

That's a lot of running pigs. Flying pigs. Or, volunteering pigs.

Seriously.

www.flyingpigmarathon.com

More Than Skin Deep

"It's not hard to find a cupcake that's pretty enough for a pageant. Walk into any bakery or party and chances are you'll encounter an array of squat little cakes peeking out underneath picture-perfect mounds of frosting, nary a sprinkle out of place.....Alas, this is too often where the allure -- not to mention the baker's attention - ends, given that few cupcakes are able to back up their outer beauty with inner qualities other than dry and boring. Perhaps it's time to free cupcakes from their usual confines, to rethink them as tiny, irresistible versions of your favorite full-size cakes, in all their varied appeal...."

Martha Stewart Living, February 2009 from the cover article, "Sweet Indulgences" by Deb Perelman

Ain't it the truth.

It's good to know that, in this world of woe, at least someone like Deb is all over the brewing culinary crisis surrounding the innocent cupcake. Just like real life. We can probably blame it on Paris Hilton, as with all things concerning the conflict and debate between inner beauty and a shallow, overdone exterior.

I know I feel better today, knowing that -- not only did Martha already write the definitive cookbook just for cupcakes (it's not in my collection, but it could be some day), she devoted the February, 2009 cover to humble mini chocolate cupcakes and classically dressed them. In the food styling equivalent of their underwear and bare feet.

Just frosting. No layering of accessories. No sprinkles, flowers, beads, three-dimensional add-ons. To be sure, they're attired in a rainbow of colors that recall a parade of bridesmaid dresses in a rich girl's wedding.

Arranged them in a heart shape on a pale blue limbo background and instructed the stylists to just spread the frosting on top with an offset spatula and forget about earrings and shoes.

Sometimes, it's good to be reminded that the simple things in life are often the best things in life. Anything presented this simply will taste incredibly good. That's what Martha delivers. This issue contains 15 new recipes -- supposedly. I guess that means that they are new since the book or new since any other time MSL has featured cupcake recipes.

But, with Martha, you never know. It could just be more of her able cross-merchandising techniques at work. The best part about the magazine, regardless of whether it steals from a book across the room, is that all the recipes and assembly instructions eventually go online.

None of it was yet available online yesterday, when my subscription copy arrived in the mail. Membership has its privileges. MSL habitually uses dual covers -- one for subscribers and one for the newsstand. So, I don't know if non-subscribers will ever see the cover I have. If not, I am deeply sorry.

Nothing says "let's make cupcakes" better than a cover like this one. It fairly made my day. Not that I was having a bad day; I've been sequestered since the weekend, trying to stay well after Shannon left a trail of bronchitis and prospective strep cooties in the house. Except for those jaunts up the hill to Meredith's school in the pouring down snow, I've successfully stayed out of the public arena where germs are freely and unapologetically shared. I might need to actually go inside a grocery store today, and that probably won't be a Good Thing.

Of course, to accomplish Martha's rainbow cover, you will need to borrow my Spectrum gel paste food color set, the 24-pack of bottles that I bought from her back when she had an online store. I think Ateco now repacks and distributes all things Spectrum. If you have never used gel food coloring before, not only have you missed most of the potential in your frosting bowl, you have also missed every nuance of tone and hue between every color.

With names like "Egg Yellow," "Tulip Red," "Avocado," and "Terracotta," you can imagine the possibilities. Things get even more interesting when you dare to mix the colors. It's packed in the U.S., but has the English-French labeling required for distribution in Canada, too. Wilton also sells gel paste, so it's widely available in the States.

I see that we're getting low on "Deep Pink." Back in the day when Americans could only color their frosting with the four-pack of water-based food coloring from the grocery store, we never had a pink like this one. "Real" pink. A shade from the garden that you can't get just by dropping Kroger "red" into a bowl of white fluff. Trust me on this one. That we're down half a bottle signals that Valentine's Day has taken its fair share from this color box.

Martha had to already know that pink is better loved in my box than, say, "Peach." She already knew that subscribers would be thinking a month ahead about this important baking "holiday" and, once again, nailed the salient baking quandry of the moment.

"Tailoring sweets to Valentine's Day doesn't mean you have to feel beholden to convention. These decadent cupcakes, from chocolate to strawberry, are anything but predictable in both appearance and underlying appeal. They're perfect for an office party for 20 or a quiet dinner for two."

Git it, Girl.

www.marthastewart.com

Tossed Over

"So in our pride, we ordered for breakfast an omelet, toast and coffee and what has just arrived is a tomato salad with onions, a dish of pickles, a big slice of watermelon and two bottles of cream soda."

John Steinbeck













I wasn't so daft on purpose. I just didn't have any experience. Or, clearly-worded forewarning.

We'd been in Austria about twelve hours and already made the mistake of sleeping through breakfast. We were supposed to put ourselves on Germany time the moment we landed in Munich. Mostly, we succeeded. We had lunch at the correct time at a downtown McDonald's, because my father-in-law thought that it was cool to eat at a McDonald's in Germany that used fresh-ground meat for the sandwiches and cut fresh french fries from real potatoes on site.



He was not particularly adventuresome in the culinary department. His condition often posed challenges for me, but I tried to be quiet about it because he had given this trip to Europe to the family as a Christmas gift. He had about a million frequent flyer miles, and cashed in a small section of them to get everyone across the pond. He said he was paying for everything from the beginning. But, that could only mean one thing. We would eat when he ate. We would eat where he wanted to eat.

We were in the habit of respecting his wishes because the alternative was unthinkable. But, we lived in San Francisco at the time and were among the most spoiled of the spoiled when it came to eating. The best of the best, sometimes the best of the only, was available to us in such mass quantity and quality, we had forgotten how the rest of the world lived. Ate.



Indeed.



We piled into the cars for the drive from Munich to Bad Gastein, the world-famous health resort in one of Austria's biggest ski areas. We arrived in the dark, but it was obvious that we had landed in the middle of a postcard. I thought that morning would come easy. We would jump out of the featherbeds and run to the windows, pull open the heavy drapes, lift the shades and bask in this fairy tale. Then, we would meet the family for breakfast somewhere downstairs. We weren't sure where, but we would find it.



Wrong.



We almost missed lunch. I don't know how we could have slept that long, given that I felt hungrier than I had ever felt in my life. The rumbling of my stomach should have done what no alarm clock could handle that day. In the days well before cell phones, this type of stuff could occur with regularity. Because family members generally didn't like to knock on the doors of others and wait to see what appeared. They probably would have made an exception in the event of a fire. But, I'm not entirely sure.

I couldn't remember what day it was. But at home, during the work week, this stomach activity generally signalled the need to go downstairs to the alley known as Maiden Lane and get a small caesar salad and soup of the day. Every day except Friday, because I still don't like clam chowder. On that day, I'd plan to have enough time to run up Powell Street to the mediterranean wonder-thing on the corner and get Aram sandwiches. One part turkey, one part vegetarian. To go, of course.

Those Aram sandwiches have subsequently appeared in supermarkets nationwide, renamed something stupid like "pinwheels." Known by the masses as any concoction laid out on a 12" lavosh bread, rolled up and sliced about an inch wide into delightful, exotic lunch. The generic sandwich category advanced to include anything in the "wrap" group. Back then, I was an early adopter and liked being in the exclusive know-it-all foodie group that got to eat these sandwiches in private before the little people got hold of them. But, of course, anything worth eating started somewhere. In my world, everything must have started either in France or San Francisco.

But, I thought that a place like the Hotel Elisabethpark could be holding some culinary creations unheard of even by the most sophisticated eaters. And, I was ready to partake. I envisioned only the best and had my mouth set for something I had not consumed in, I don't know, at least 36 hours.

Salad. A big, crunchy bowl of lettuce -- preferably romaine -- maybe some freshly toasted croutons, slivers of freshly-sliced parmesan. Perhaps some cherry tomatoes. Who could know what wonder awaited.

We were seated, not as late as we thought we would be. Everyone else was already studying the special, English-only menus that the hotel had printed out just for this table. I was embarrassed to think that all the Ugly Americans staying in Austria that day happened to be seated at my table. My husband and I were determined to order in German.

Most of the family on this trip really liked salad bars, and we were all mostly enthused to hear that Hotel Elisabethpark "was known" for its salad bar. At least, that's what my two years of high school and two semesters of college German thought it heard. Anyway, the waiter was quite animated about it, and I could see through the double doors from our table, that an entire ROOM had been set aside for this Seventh Wonder.

My mother-in-law quietly offered to me that they had stayed there before and that the salad bar wasn't like the ones they had at home. Well, I thought -- No Kidding. They lived in Wichita, Kansas. My food snob brain cells really kicked in as I silently considered what a step up from their miserable existence this salad bar must really represent.

It was February of 1985 -- winter in Austria. But, it never even crossed my snooty mind that the weather, location, or local eating habits could influence the availability of my dream lunch. I expected it to hold the makings for Salad Nicoise, the Austrian interpretation of an Italian antipasti, and a big bowl of German Potato Salad. Right next to that big bowl of lettuce that would form the base of whatever else I deigned to select.

I was first in line for the Hotel Elisabethpark Salad Bar. Row upon row of platters, bowls, plates, and crocks circled the enormous table. It was so big, I couldn't even imagine what I was seeing.

I mean, I couldn't really identify what I was seeing. The extent of the fresh produce was a sparcely-populated plate of Belgian endive, apparently carefully separated into individual leaves to stretch the supply as far as possible.

My salad bar lunch could be anything I wanted it to be, so long as the ingredients had been preserved, pickled, soaked in brine, lacquered together with mayonnaise, cured, smoked, or aged.

All manner of cheese -- soft, hard, or in-between; all manner of meat -- bratwurst from every corner of the region, ham, canned beef spread; all manner of seafood -- from a can, packed in oil or poached to a lifeless white; all manner of bread and crackers -- dried-out rolls, cocktail rye bread, zwieback, anything with sesame, poppy, celery or caraway seeds; mayo- or oil-based salads of tuna, chicken, salmon, cabbage, potato, and egg; every vegetable that can possibly be pickled, and even some pickled fruit; the regular kind of pickles, with every kind of imaginable olive; every kind of fruit that can be canned, which means every kind of fruit.

And, much, much more.

I didn't recognize half of the items on that salad bar that day. If it had been situated in San Francisco, I probably would have identified the assortment as an opportunity to learn. The bountiful array in Bad Gastein was clearly revered by those "in the know." Which, didn't include me. My mouth was set for leafy greens, but it would have to wait. Wait all the way through Austria, Germany, and Italy until we got to London.

London had lettuce.

God Save the Queen.

Cry Me a River

"It's probably illegal to make soups, stews, and casseroles without plenty of onions."

Maggie Waldron

Former Director, Food Promotion & Recipe Development Division

Ketchum Communications, San Francisco

"Ketchum Food Center Celebrates 30th Anniversary:"

http://www.ketchum.com/food_center_30th_anniversary_release

"The Behind-the-Scenes Wizard Who Brought You the Lean Potato:"

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9D0CE2DD163DF934A3575BC0A967958260&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all

I'm coming out of it now. After skipping dinner almost every day for a week, I thought last night that I noticed something different. Yes, I was definitely coming out of it.

Two weeks of HFCDS.

Holiday Food & Cooking Derangement Syndrome.

I'm at risk for HFCDS every year. Something to do with the collection of 300 or so cookbooks, many brand management years in food companies, repetitive new product development requiring hours in food labs, food kitchens, and food tastings; and long hours behind the glass at food focus groups. Complicated by the benefit of age, with which comes the ability to cook even without a recipe. Sort of like the ability to play the piano by ear.

Symptoms include loss of appetite, lethargy around anything related to loading or unloading a dishwasher, an unconcerned "meh" response when any family member complains of hunger, and confusing cheese and crackers for a dinner entree.

I was actually hungry at lunch time today. That might have been a problem, because part of the recovery process for HFCDS requires me to stay out of grocery stores for a while. (Too much food there.) Which, I had done for almost the entire two weeks without regret. But, that didn't mean there wasn't anything to eat. It was just going to require me to actually think about it.

Three zucchini stared up at me, wrapped in swaddling paper towels and lying in the vegetable bin. Shannon will be upset to know that I bought them on December 31 with the idea of whipping up a batch of sauteed zucchini circles sometime around the Rose Bowl. And, something like roast chicken to go with it. But, I got lost somewhere in USC's 24-point second quarter, thereby redefining the term "squash," and never gave it another thought.

I took two of the three out - they were looking a little peaked, but would be OK with the help of a vegetable peeler.

A small, old block of gruyere looked like it needed a home soon, so I took that out. I shredded about two tablespoons of it onto waxed paper.

I threw the sliced zucchini into the skillet after about a tablespoon each of butter and olive oil started to bubble. Then, I sprinkled about a teaspoon of kosher salt and half a teaspoon of coarse black pepper over it. Since Shannon wasn't here, I knew I could peel and thinly slice one of the two shallots still on the counter without objection. When the zucchini started to wilt and it was time to flip the circles over, I tossed in the shallots.

When the zucchini looked like it had had enough (almost golden brown on both sides), I warmed my plate in the microwave, then slipped the drained zucchini/shallot mixture onto it. I whisked two eggs with a dash of salt and pepper in a separate bowl and poured them into another, smaller skillet after a teaspoon of butter started to brown. Since I like scrambled eggs that look like they've barely seen the heat, I turned off the gas within 30 seconds and flipped everything over a couple times. While the eggs were still very runny, I plopped them on top of the vegetables. The shredded gruyere went over all of that.

Yum. Sort of like a frittata, but not really.

I hadn't even finished this dish when I realized that my stomach had reconnected itself to my brain. My brain said, "What would Maggie do next?" Ah, yes. I'm really coming out of it now.

I was very fortunate to meet Maggie Waldron AND work with her in my late twenties. Since my work was in the Bay Area suburbs at that time, I loved nothing better than the need to go into The City for a day of work and consulting with Maggie in the Ketchum kitchen. She knew her way around vegetables -- oh yes, she did. Of course, she also knew her way around meat, fruit, pasta, and chocolate. But, it was her way with vegetables that probably impressed me the most.

For one thing, she wasn't afraid of them. She commanded them to do her bidding. Or, she coaxed them into submission. She wasn't afraid to cry over them. She laughed in the face of their recalcitrance. She was a very petite, soft-spoken genius with food. Born in Ft. Collins, Colorado. (I didn't know that at the time.) I have most of her books -- "Cold Spaghetti at Midnight" and all of her contributions to the "Country Garden Collection."

Maggie would say, well, we have this skillet sitting here. Since it isn't dishwasher-proof, are we going to go ahead and wash it, or use it again. It's already well-oiled -- let's saute something in it. It won't take long.

I mopped out the remaining oil and butter from the big skillet with a paper towel and looked around. There it was. The bowl with forlorn, leftover holiday purchases -- the "just in case" vegetables. Before lunch, the bowl had two shallots. Now it had five onions, one shallot and a whole head of garlic. Unlimited potential.

I looked in the refrigerator for other forlorn, leftover holiday purchases. There was one particularly pathetic subject. That container of ready-made "French Onion" dip. The "just in case" appetizer or time-killer item. It practically had the shelf-life of an MRE, even though it was from the fresh dairy case. The sell-by date read "March 9, 2009." There is just something so wrong about that.

There was no way I was ever going to eat this in its current state. I suddenly remembered the other item I didn't make as planned.

"Pan Fried Onion Dip"

Before HFCDS set in last year, I made a recipe of this dip from Ina Garten's "The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook." Ina is one of Martha's best buddies, and she is a good role model for career reinvention. She was a budget analyst in the White House in 1978 when she finally woke up from that stupor and realized that she needed to open Barefoot Contessa, a specialty food store in the Hamptons. Her recipes are simple, with no more ingredients than absolutely required, and always delicious. I made it last New Year's Day and didn't do it this year because we just had so much stuff going on without it.

I didn't have all the ingredients for it, but I could certainly do the caramelized onion part and fold them into the ready-made dip. I'd be miles ahead of the pitiful container as it stood, and down two onions from the leftover vegetable bowl.

Not even the prospect of tears from slicing onions would deter me now. Two hours later, Meredith walked in from school. "What smells SO GOOD in here?" It's nothing she will even try yet, but she can have no doubt that the stale air of HFCDS has lifted. And, that will mean something good for her -- soon.

Pan-Fried Onion Dip

Makes 2 Cups

"This dip is like the California dip we remember from our childhood, except it's the real thing, with slowly caramelized onions, and it's ten times more tasty."

Ina Garten, The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook

2 large yellow onions, peeled

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/4 cup vegetable oil

1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

4 ounces cream cheese, room temperature

1/2 cup sour cream

1/2 cup good mayonnaise

Cut the onions in half, and then slice them into 1/8-inch-thick half-rounds. (You will have about three cups of onions.)

Heat the butter and oil in a large saute pan on medium heat. Add the onions, cayenne, salt, and pepper and saute for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring occasionally, for 20 more minutes, until the onions are browned and caramelized. Allow the onions to cool.

Place the cream cheese, sour cream, and mayonnaise in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment and beat until smooth. Add the onions and mix well. Taste for seasonings.

Serve at room temperature.

CRD Notes:

1) Why both oil and butter? They need each other to bring out the best in each. The flavor of butter and the high smoking point of oil.

2) Don't drain the onions if you're making the entire recipe from scratch. The cooked butter and oil are essential to developing the silky texture you want in the finished dip. But, if you're doing what I did -- dressing up a ready-made container -- drain the oil and put the onions in a separate bowl to cool before adding to your store-bought dip.

3) Depending on your altitude, your cooking time may vary. The onions are finished when all of them are golden-brown, or darker. It takes whatever time it takes. Don't worry if some of the onions look like they're beyond consumable. Or, if you're like me and can't keep your hand out of the pan while they're browning, and you think they're overcooked. After you mix them into the wet ingredients, the onions will reconstitute to some degree. That shouldn't be a problem. In my opinion, the onions should have some "chew" in the finished dip. Otherwise, why bother?

4) Hellman's/Best Foods for the mayo.

5) When making the whole recipe from scratch, I think the finished result is better if you refrigerate it for a couple of hours before bringing it to room temperature for serving. In my opinion, it's too wet to serve immediately if you're using it for chip/veggie dip.

6) Other uses include anything you would normally do with dip. A big dollop on top of a baked potato is probably illegal in 42 states, but I recommend it anyway. I promise I won't tell anybody :)

It's a Precious Mystery

Danniebelle Hall and the Winans Family
http://www.danniebelle.com/

Somewhere between college and marriage, I played the piano for a lot of young singers in the southern California area. Some of them I actually knew; some of them were referrals. One of the reasons I got so many opportunities was because I could play songs they wanted to sing even if they didn't have the music for it. Word got around. After marriage, word got around in a different part of the country. It got to the point where I played more occasions without music than with it.

Back in Pasadena one time, I was scheduled to accompany "Larry" from Lake Avenue Congregational Church at a small gathering on a Sunday night. We had about a week to put his set together. He was extremely gifted. He was also one of the most eccentric musicians I ever worked with. "Eccentric" is often French for "weird." But, some people thought I was weird, too. So, it worked out just fine.

Sometimes he had music, sometimes he just had charts. One time, he had neither. He handed me a new tape he had just purchased down the street at the Christian bookstore on Lake Avenue and said he wanted to do the first cut next week. I said, "You picked up the sheet music, too. Right?"

Of course not. It didn't exist. He said, "just play this."

It was hard to play piano, horns, bass and drums on just the piano. But, I gave it my best, and he was very happy. It was one of those songs that just got under my skin. Later, I found myself playing the piano part I wrote by ear over and over, even though Larry wasn't there to sing it for me. And, of course I bought the tape, too.

Now, through the magic of Youtube, this old song by an important black female gospel singer can be yours, too. She went to Heaven in 2000. So she can tell you, can tell you, how this Love can be.

"What Kind of Love is This"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0anCKEpTKs

WHAT KIND OF LOVE IS THIS (1 John 3:1,2)
Danniebelle Hall

What kind of love is this He has bestowed on me?
I am a child of God and I speak of a mystery.
I don't know how it is or how it shall be, (oh no)
But this one thing I know (yeah) that when His face I see,
I shall be like Him, for I shall know Him.
In all of His beauty and glory, I will behold Him,
And I'll trade this robe of flesh for immortality.
Then I can tell you, I'll tell you how this love can be.

What kind of love is this? Why should He love me so?
Why would He send His only Son into this world of woe?
What made my Savior die?
He died up there on that cruel cross.
Why would He bear my shame, Lord?
Why would He suffer my loss?

(Yeah) It's a precious, precious mystery He will return for me;
And together, we're going to share our love throughout eternity, yeah!
And I'm gonna trade this robe of flesh, trade it in for immortality.
Then I can tell you, I'll tell you how this love can be.
(Yeah)

(Yeah) It's a precious, precious mystery He will return for me,
And together, we're going to share our love throughout all eternity,
And I'm gonna trade this robe of flesh, I'll trade it in for immortality.(Oh-ho)
Then I can tell you, I'll tell you how this love can be.

(Mmmm) Then I can tell you, I'll tell you how this love can be.

(Oh-ho, yeah) Then I can tell you, I'll tell you how this love can be.

Then I can tell you, I'll tell you…

Just a Few Flakes

"Don't knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn't start a conversation if it didn't change once in a while."

Kin Hubbard

I wasn't even out of the school parking lot when my cell phone sang. It was 6:45 a.m. It was Meredith.

It was Meredith? I had just dropped her off at the entrance less than a minute before. She hadn't been expecting a ride this morning. But, thanks to my trusty text message alert from Denver CBS4 last night, I knew what she didn't anticipate. We were going to wake up to a blanket of white, and we were going to like it. What choice did we have about it? We might as well get happy.

"Mom, I forgot something." Great. "Something important." It's pouring down snow, I couldn't sleep past 5:30, and I was thinking about packing it in for another hour or so to let the two Aleve kick in. My knees are killing me this morning, and I don't have sports, surgeries, or rehab to blame.

"You're kidding." I was creeping down the steep hill part of Wildcat Reserve Parkway at about 15 mph, anticipating the right turn back into the community that sometimes doesn't work out if the traffic behind is too impatient. It's not a turn that can be made well even on dry pavement ahead of a speed limit of 45 mph, that is generally mistaken to be more like 60 mph.

No kidding. The video camera she borrowed from a teacher over the weekend was left at the end of her bed. While I waited for her, I had overheard the sound of the sliding computer keyboard at her desk. So, she certainly had enough time to look around and remember everything.

Did I ask her if she had everything? I usually do. But, this morning, my first concern was whether she had put anything into her stomach. No mother wants to think she has sent her child to school without food on a morning with pouring down snow and a sub-freezing temperature. At almost 17-years-old, she doesn't like me to make it, plate it, and serve it up if she didn't have input to it. So, I stopped trying that a while ago.

"What do you want to do?" A lot of mothers would have taken the "too bad, so sad" approach to this problem and let her hang for the day. Not me. I don't have a good reason to put her in a bind, since the school is just up the hill.

But, it's up the hill on a morning when it's pouring down snow. No sign of stopping. It always looks that way. Like it will never stop. Like the sun will never shine again. Like it will never melt and like grass will never grow again.

I don't want to do it. But, I will. Go back at 10 a.m., park the car, walk in the snow to the security sign-in sheet, stand by the office and wait for her to come out of class to the front of the building and take the hand-off.

"Will you pick me up this afternoon if it's still snowing and it's cold?"

We've lived in Colorado long enough to know that this storm could do one of only two things: (1) go on for days and leave us with four feet; (2) stop by Noon, followed by bright sunshine, followed by the rapid meltdown and drip-drip-drip of running water off the roof.

"We'll be in text about it."

At the moment we make the camera exchange at 10 a.m., we might know the answer about walking vs. riding this afternoon. It's just a matter of time.

CBS4 just called again. "Denver snow becomes lighter through morning." Thanks, that would be really helpful.

Wait -- here's a text update. "Winter weather advisory now in effect on Front Range until 11 a.m. (blowing snow, low visibilities & winter driving conditions)."

Thanks, I think.

Mrs. Clean Lives Here

"...The focus of this cartoon is to bring that emotion home to every parent of a college student. Suddenly, doing the laundry for your child is not such a chore. And picking up their clothes off of the floor in their room becomes a labor of love when you realize that you may never have to do it again."
Gary Varval, Indianapolis Star, 4/17/07

It's Saturday again. Wasn't it just Saturday last week? I guess a lot of things happened to move the days forward so quickly. Saturday is supposed to mean one of two things here -- college football or food. But, as you know perfectly well, I've said all there can be to say about college football. And, since the season is finally -- mercifully -- finished, I won't have anything to say for days or even weeks. Or, until National Signing Day. Whichever comes first.

As for food, well we finally got the proper diagnosis on the sick lower oven that went AWOL on Christmas Day. During this process, what was ailing the lower oven spread to the upper oven and put it out of commission, too. We got the "F7" message and followed the instructions to "reboot," which really means to flip the breaker switch on the side of the house. This Mark did in freezing cold weather on the day the wind storm came through Denver. I could hear the metal panel flapping against the house while he tried to decifer among the rows of switches. He found the right one and magic happened for about 30 seconds. The oven rebooted, and the entire control panel worked again. The lower oven came back to life, preheated, and everything.

Then, the beeping began again. F7 was back. And, with it, the upper oven was now on strike, too. For that matter, the entire control panel had left the building. Great.

The repairman had wasted no time in ordering the new computer during his first visit. "It's the only one left in stock." They must teach that in "Identifying & Capturing Incremental Revenue During Routine Repair Calls" class. He was almost sorry to hear from Mark that F7 had appeared when he called to vigorously report the arrival of the new computer in his van and schedule his follow-up appointment.

But, even he could not deny the fact that F7 might mean an entirely new ballgame. After he dismantled the oven from the wall again, I had to leave the room. I never liked the sight of blood; otherwise, I would have been a surgeon. He shouted up the stairs, "OK to use your bathroom?" Maybe he was nauseous, too.

After what seemed like an eternity (five or six minutes), I heard muffled tones of him giving a discertation to Mark about the ridiculousness of computer-based home appliances. Magically, I heard the front door open and close. The coast was clear. I went bounding down the stairs.

Mark said, "Did you hear that?" Obviously, not. I was doing everything possible to hide from this train wreck and didn't want to prolong the conversation about the evils of technology one more moment than necessary.

Repairman had discovered that the problem was as easily solved as unwinding electrical tape from a spool. What was headed to $400 fell to the new, low price of $100, and everyone was as happy as anyone can be after paying $100 for about 12 inches of electrical tape.

But, I got to see what is really behind the black glass facade of my General Electric double ovens. It looks a lot like the inside of this computer. Not surprising. But, sort of disconcerting to draw a repairman who professes to neither use or support the operation of anything containing computer parts. He's a mechanical man, himself. His truck looked like a very old milk delivery truck from the 1970's, with no exterior markings. Tall and really boxy. He has seen every horror story connected to computer anything, let me tell you. He uses 100% Grade A mechanical parts. That's it. And, he's proud to be a Ludite. Now that he heard me define the term.

Very well. He's certainly not stupid. He got $100 of our money.

Once the relief settled from hearing that both ovens were now going to live, I turned my attention to the only thing that really mattered next. That would be, of course, to be certain that all evidence of Repairman's visit to my home had been eradicated. I traced his every step with household cleaner, paper towels, my 2X eyeglasses, and a wrinkled forehead. I made sure he was gone -- all of him.

That's just how I roll. Since football and food are off the table today, that leaves just one other possibility for a topic. Since I already wrote "War & Peace" about the ovens, that leaves a couple of sentences about laundry.

Saturday is not Laundry Day at the Dickerson's. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday AND Saturday are Laundry Day at the Dickerson's. Today is just like any other day, except for Sunday. On this particular Laundry Day, I thought I would be hand-wringing like I always do when Shannon is driving I-80 east back to Lincoln, Nebraska. Fortunately, I'm not engaged in that handwringing today. Because, unfortunately, she's on horsepill antibiotics for bronchitis. She might have strep also. So, her remaining undone laundry that would have been headed to Lincoln in a basket today is downstairs, sorted with all the rest of what we could find to do.

We have a very large, front-load washer that is supposed to do 23 bath towels at one time. I never tested the claim. But, bigger loads are more efficient anyway. It's just another day. It's just another Laundry Day. Instead of thinking that I shouldn't be doing what a 21-year-old should have done two days ago, I'm more than happy to help out.

Not having the opportunity to help out is just too horrific to contemplate.

Time Machine

"The shortest distance between two points is under construction."
Leo Aikman

"Please Mr. Postman," The Beatles
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuGgWRyhPsI


Communication ain't what it used to be. And, oh what a relief it is!

When I was the age of our youngest daughter, 17, I could chose among many methods to stay in touch with people who moved away or relatives who lived in faraway states. Handwritten letters, cards, and postcards. Long-distance phone calls from a land line. Of course, the term "land line" had not yet been invented - it was either the home phone or a phone in a phone booth. If you had a really big announcement or tragedy to tell, you sent a telegram. In my first job out of college, one of the things I needed to do for new business development was learn how to use the telegraph machine. To communicate with colleagues in Japan.

Those were the days, huh?! Any readers under the age of about 35 are probably laughing their heads off.

That's OK. I'm laughing right along with you.

But, the thing that has come to mind recently is how much commitment of time, money, and energy those communication devices required. And what a marvelous excuse it is to say that those clunky methods were the real reason you didn't do your job as a friend.

It was very easy to lose touch with people. It was very hard to stay connected to people, even if you really cared about them. The press of time and maturing often caused unintended rifts. Obviously, if you took the time to actually sit down and write a letter to someone by hand, you cared a lot about them. Love letters were kept in boxes. (I have two such boxes, still.) Somebody's mother was always patrolling the mail box, too. So, even if you were innocently communicating, you could easily be promoted to promiscuous with the stroke of a pen.

Letters really meant something. They were not to be entered into lightly, without reservation. If you were dating someone and wanted to stay in touch with someone who might be perceived as competition and were found to have written a letter to that person, well -- let's just say that it was a problem. Same for long distance charges. I wonder how many marriages used to be broken when spouses found suspicious phone numbers on a monthly statement and called one of them. Only to find themselves on the wrong end of a conversation with a total stranger. That probably happens today anyway. Same day, same monthly statement, different phone device.

Did I say that it was really easy to wake up one day and find yourself adrift from all kinds of people? Even people you cared about.

In one of my favorite books ("Ageless Marketing"), my friend David Wolfe simplifies the discussion about how our brains change as we age. It's partly Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, partly physiology. Suffice to say, once we pass 50 years of age, we view many things differently in our lives. Wisdom alone isn't responsible for this transformation.

It's no surprise to me, then, that I think about people from my past -- even my very distant past -- much more now than ever before. And, what luck to have a computer on my lap to facilitate time travel like never before.

Certainly, joining Facebook has fueled a lot of curiosity about people I used to know. Even people I used to know just a little bit. It is one of the potential ways to answer the question, "what ever happened to Joe?"

When Google permitted us to review "Google 2001" for a month during their anniversary celebration, the amazing discoveries of forgotten stuff were almost overwhelming. And, less than a decade has passed since 2001; so, it was also startling to face the fact about how much information and "trace" data has already been scrubbed from the internet.

Meanwhile, I'm happy to have what we have. I am trying to find a few people. It's like a new hobby. I don't know if all of the people I'm seeking will be as intrigued with the notion as me. Some of them may not welcome the intrusion. They will remember me. But, I don't know if what they remember will matter enough to them to pick up communication in mid-life and go forward like nothing ever changed.

But, it's an interesting endeavor, n'est pas?? I think I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by working to expand -- or, recapture -- my sphere of friends. My commitment to life-long learning will be enhanced by every person who responds positively.

I should have tried harder to stay connected to the people I'm seeking now. But, I'm not going to beat myself over the head with guilt. They wouldn't be on my search list if they had tried to stay in touch with me either.

I'm going to give them the same benefit-of-the-doubt that I'm hoping they will give me. And, I'll be happy when I get their return e-mail -- the easiest form of communication currently known to man.

Imagine, if you will, a world where the simple act of hitting the "reply" box at 3 a.m. in your bunny slippers didn't even exist.

Perhaps that world you've just imagined is The Twilight Zone.

Perhaps you're right.

Zero U

"I think we're still better than the way we played."

Bob Stoops, Chokelahoma Head Coach

It's getting to be an old saw. After each of five consecutive BCS Bowl losses now, we don't even need to watch the post-game news conference. At least, not on the Oklahoma side. We already know what Bob will say.

It's not that they can be better. It's that they played in a conference this season that was way overrated. The BCS computers gave them a bunch of style points. Just like they get a bunch of style points every year. They don't face any real defenses in their conference, so their very inexperienced quarterback can post hysterically high numbers and win the Heisman Trophy in an upset. Of the guy on the winning side of whatever contest they're in next.

I was looking for a snoozer in the BCS title game tonight, and I wasn't disappointed. Oh sure, there were a few good offensive plays. All on Florida's side of the line. That shouldn't have surprised anyone who was really paying attention this year. Or, paying attention to the results of the more important post-season bowls.

Utah beat a high profile team in Alabama and went undefeated. Their conference continues to be disrespected. So, they don't get the necessary style points to advance to the BCS title game, even with an undefeated season.

USC plays in a disrespected conference. They don't get enough style points during the season to advance to the BCS title game. Unless they go undefeated. Which, they could have done this year. But, didn't again. Their disrespected conference went 5-0 in post-season bowl games.

It's time to blow up the BCS. It isn't working. Period. Lee Corso said today that USC is #1, and the BCS title game is for #2. Hey, as a partisan, I like that sentiment very much. But, we all know that every school in Division I agrees to the BCS rules every year and must live with the outcome regardless of what transpires as the games unfold.

Some people may think that this constant arguing about who is the best and which game or games should determine who is the best when a bunch of teams have "identical" records is good for the sport. To bring lots of attention and dialogue to the situation.

Me? I think the whole mess just disrespects the sport of college football more than any particular school. All the other scholarship programs, whether or not they are revenue sports, use a post-season tournament to crown their NCAA champions. Why should the most loved and followed sport among them settle for less??!

These players and these coaches deserve better.

I was rooting for Florida only because I thought they were more deserving of advancing to the title game of the two teams.

But, tell the truth. After USC turned Penn State into hamburger meat last week, wouldn't you now like to see USC play Florida. Next?

Yeah, baby. Fight ON!

Cheaper Than Food

"Jack in the Box Sells 315,360,000 Tacos Per Year"


"America's passion for Mexican fast-food is leading to a boom in taco sales. Even traditional burgers and fries chains are adding taco fare to their menu boards. Here, workers at a food manufacturing plant in Hutchinson, Kan., inspect and pack tacos destined for Jack in the Box® restaurants, the only major fast-food hamburger chain offering tacos at all its restaurants. Jack in the Box officials say their customers consume 600 tacos every minute, or 315,360,000 tacos a year. "

http://www.junkfoodnews.net/

(This post was actually written on Thursday, January 8, 2009. The photos were saved on Tuesday, thereby confusing the Google hamsters behind the curtain.)

PEBO just took the podium to give his "major economic speech." I'm going to listen to it because he'll be back on teleprompter. That means I won't have to endure the uhs, ums, aaaannnnds, and blank looks he's been pushing the past 60 days. He's been doing nothing to encourage anybody over the past week, since that wouldn't do anything to prepare people for the eye-popping $1 trillion "stimulus package" he's working toward.

As anyone who pays attention to stuff like this knows, people at "the top" need to demonstrate some willingness to show positive spirit once in a while, or a difficult situation becomes a full-blown crisis in short order.

While he continues to tell us how bad it is, I'm thinking of all the ways I've been contributing to the shrinking economy in the past couple of months. Unquestionably, I've been doing my part to prepare for the miserable economic days he says are upon me today and potentially to the end of my time.

I haven't been doing it alone, of course. The reentry of the Jack in the Box fast-food chain to the state of Colorado has been nothing short of miraculous timing. They started up in Arvada, which feels like more than the 30 miles it stretches, door-to-door from our home in Highlands Ranch. The location is also quite peculiar in terms of easy-on, easy-off access from the major highways around it.

To anyone on a mission like 2 for $.99 tacos at JITB, these inconveniences are a mere trifle.

We lived here for five years without them. Almost an eternity. The craving for JITB tacos is completely irrationally. The rumors about what they contain and how they are made are the stuff of legend. Especially, since Ralston Purina owned the company. And, we all know what they make. That's right. Detractors of the humble JITB taco spread the smear that the meat concoction was a dog food base.

Actually, that didn't deter anyone. Not even me. A self-professed foodie married to a meat-and-potatoes boy can't have it her way all the time. There's also that thing about how it started, on Foothill Boulevard in Pasadena, California. After school. High school. He was already in college, but sometimes picked me up from Arcadia HS. We drove to either that JITB or the now-defunct Pup 'n Taco on the same street, but down almost to Huntington Blvd.

If we went to JITB, I had two tacos and an order of onion rings. If we went to Pup 'n Taco, I had two tacos. If I had consumed tacos at both places on the same day, the cost still wouldn't have exceeded $2.50.

So, it's an amazing thing to watch the ongoing, everyday-low-priced 2 for $.99 tacos at JITB.

When the new JITB opened at that far-away Arvada location, we found a reason to go up there. The place was jammed, the drive-through was jammed, the parking lot was a parking lot, and cars lined both sides of the street across from the store. We went in anyway.

Turns out that everybody got their cooked-to-order food really fast, even in that environment. Everybody except for anybody who ordered tacos. Looking at my family, I calculated that we need at least eight. $3.96.

We waited what felt like an eternity. Tacos were flying. A guy next to us at the only remaining chairs -- the high stools against the drive-through window -- finally got his order. Twelve tacos. Just for him. The woman across the aisle at the booth on the end got the order for her family. She had about three trays, and two of them were laden with tacos. Twenty minutes later, we finally got our order. The onion rings were cold, but the tacos were just out of the fryer, of course. That was all that mattered.

Out of the fryer, you say??!! What's good about that??!!

Well, everything.

By the way, the major economic speech just ended. I know I'm a detractor, but I didn't hear anything "major" about it. It was very short, very short on new information, very short on optimism; and, now my friend, Major Garrett, is going to try to put some meat on the bones for listeners. Because, there wasn't much there there.

But, I digress. The JITB taco is partially constructed before it hits the store. The photo of the dudes in the white food manufacturing costumes demonstrates that the item does, indeed, source from a plant in suburban Wichita, Kansas. Hutchinson, Kansas has been the source of much beef-based foodservice items over the years. Other notables include the pepperoni and sausage that goes on top of Pizza Hut pizzas, another food chain that started in Wichita.

So, the dog food rumor mongers can give it a rest. The ingredient list for tacos on the JITB website also lists "beef" at the top. So, that's all very encouraging.

The fryer? Well, the beef concoction is packed into the shell, per the picture. The taco is quick-frozen. It is delivered frozen to the stores. When a taco is ordered, it is pulled from the freezer and placed into a slotted food fryer basket. It's dropped into the oil for about a minute. When it emerges, it is barely drained before someone drops shredded lettuce, a diagonal slice of American cheese, and a ribbon of hot sauce high on the vinegar into it. The whole thing goes into a taco sleeve (bag open on one end) before being bagged or trayed.

What's good about that??

Everything. The meat concoction doesn't really cook or "fry" while the taco is in the fryer. It just gets hot. The section of the taco that doesn't have meat gets really crunchy, and the section with the meat stays softer.

Is it "real" Mexican food??!!

Well, I guess that depends on where y'all are from. In the Los Angeles area, there are hundreds of places at all points on the price spectrum that sell tacos. If we're honest, some of the prep techniques aren't that much different from JITB. Sometimes the outcomes aren't as good. I don't know why.

Do I actually know what good Mexican food tastes like??!!

Yes, I do believe I do. After all, I know when green corn tamales are in season at El Cholo. When I went there with other soccer parents during Shannon's official visit to USC in the fall of 2004, I didn't even have to look at the menu to know that I wanted the #1 Combination, which also happens to be their best seller of all time. I could have driven the vehicle to their location on S. Western Avenue with my eyes closed.

The beans are refried the old way there. You can get the newer, trendier black beans instead. But, why would you want to??!! If lard isn't the first ingredient on every item, then it's near the top. I guess it's a good thing I haven't lived close enough to El Cholo for 27 years to do much more damage.

Maybe a few tacos cooked in canola oil once in a while might actually be saving my arteries from destruction.

Jack in the Box to the rescue. They opened another location in Parker a few weeks ago. It is much closer to our house, but requires a real jaunt south from E-470 on the ever-overloaded Parker Road to reach it. As soon as Shannon got home from Lincoln for Christmas break, the girls and I made the trek over there. We ate mass quantities for little coin and reveled in the idea that some things should never change and sometimes don't.

I'm not sure how much nutritional value we got for the money. The JITB website claims that a single taco carries a mere 160 calories. That's not great, but it could be worse.

I do think that the folks who are ordering them by the dozen might want to rethink that, however. Spending $5.94 on lunch sounds pretty good. But, ingesting 1920 calories in the process looks like a major crisis of another sort.

Like everything else, moderation is the key. PEBO says we're going to have to tighten our belts. Taco consumption must suffer to achieve belt-tightening. But, at 2 for $.99, don't expect it anytime soon.

Wake Me Up When It's Over

"I don't like to squash one's creativity."

Jim Tressel

I'm a partisan hack, so my opinion won't matter much tonight. But, it's easy as 1-2-3 to me.

1. The winner of the Fiesta Bowl -- Texas -- doesn't deserve the AP national championship. They needed all but 18 seconds of the entire game to defeat Ohio State. Truly a yawner. The only thing they can be honestly crowned is the Fiesta Bowl champions. Boo hookem hoo. Mack Brown says he will vote them #1 on Friday morning because he thinks they're the best team in the country. Based on surviving Tressel Ball in the desert? Who hit him in the head during this snoozer? He is completely delusional. Colt McCoy doesn't think anyone in the country can beat his team now. He needs to watch more film. I would recommend he begin with film of the Rose Bowl on 1/1/09.

2. USC already beat the living daylights out of Ohio State -- the game was over before halftime. They would also beat the living daylights out of this particular Texas edition. It would be over before halftime, too. The score at halftime of this game was a whopping 6-3, three field goals. If Mack Brown is right, then USC really is the NFL franchise in Los Angeles.

3. Oklahoma is playing Florida for the BCS title because of their win vs. Texas Tech, who lost in the Cotton Bowl to the only team to beat Florida. OU lost to Texas by 10 points and spent the rest of the season beating up lowly opponents to generate enough style points in the computers for the eventual spit-out. OU lost to Texas by seven more points than Ohio State's losing margin. Is Ohio State a better team than Oklahoma? Not even close. So, that means that Texas isn't even close to the best team in the country either. The Big XII South has been completely exposed in the post-season.

Go Gators!!

Long Division With Remainders

"Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins, it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols."

Thomas Mann

"You better cut the pizza in four pieces, because I'm not hungry enough to eat six."

Yogi Berra

The first Monday in January this year is already the fifth of the month. I guess some folks are having a hard time getting to work on their resolutions. Never one to miss a business opportunity, Oprah is lending her expertise to the topic in ways we've absolutely heard and seen before.

During a 30-minute Noon news segment on the local CBS affiliate, I saw at least four promos for Oprah's show about her extraordinary weight gain. How did she let this happen??!! Well, I don't know. But, my Facebook page continues to post an ad for "Oprah's Acai Berry Diet -- This is the biggest diet buzz in the history of Hollywood. See why everyone's talking about it and order yours!"

She didn't eat enough of them.

Or, she ate all of them.

I don't know much about a chocolate-flavored berry or where it's been all my life. But, I'm pretty sure Oprah isn't the best spokesmodel for anything related to this diet. In January, or any other month for that matter.

In other First Monday in January news -- according to the Washington Post last year (add it to the growing list of things I don't read anymore) -- this day is affectionately referred to in Britain as "D-Day."

Lest the hamsters running your brain's history loop have fallen off the wheel, let me clarify that the term has nothing to do with World War II. But, it apparently does have something to do with war. The domestic kind.

The story went that, when children return to school on the first Monday of January (or whatever Monday in January marks the end of the long holiday period there each year), a sharp increase in divorce filings follows. After having been stuck at home with spouses for the extended period, a unique combination of lonliness and resolution is credited for triggering such an outburst of decision-making.

Add too much drink, too much messing around, and too much spending to this toxic emotional trauma, et voila! Another one bites the dust.

I don't understand what people have been doing all year if they wait until Christmas to decide they're unhappy. If they wait until Christmas to determine that they must now wait until January 5 to file for divorce, lest they disappoint the children. Unless the children have been at boarding school, they were probably already hip to the monkey.

The new year promise of "new beginnings" certainly takes on a different ring in this context. A lot of people undoubtedly place too much expectation on themselves and others. Throwing out a spouse with the old habits?

Might be taking "in with the new" a tad bit literally.

Acai Berry Scam, anyone??!!

Dinner Was Served

It's Saturday again. It sorta feels like Monday or Friday, except that it was Friday yesterday. I don't know about December 25 and January 1 falling on a Thursday. It's just weird the rest of the way.

So, in keeping with my previous full disclosure, Saturday is scheduled to mean football or food topics at When Pigs Fly. No politics, no world conflict stuff.

But, my college football season ended on Thursday. I probably need to replace college football with college basketball in my Saturday line-up for a few months. Just one problem with that. Except for a couple of teams, I don't really care anything about college basketball until NCAA tournament time. That's weeks away. And, although I've seen some remarkable basketball from the defending national champion Kansas Jayhawks already, there is no question that the team is very young and quite rebuilding-like. So, I might not have much to say about it.

I couldn't care less about trying to diagnose and review the No Fun League (NFL), even though many of my favorite college football players reside there now. The only NFL story I watched this week was the very long presser with the local CBS affiliate on Wednesday. Where the Broncos owner said about 40 times that he had to make 'the tough decision.' That would be, of course, to fire the very noble, very professional, very stoic, but very didn't-git-er-dun Mike Shanahan. He's a great guy with a beautiful family, and he loves Denver a lot. But, now he's unemployed in Denver. I feel his pain.

Since it's so widely known that there is no "D" in Denver professional basketball, Chauncey Billips notwithstanding, it will come as no surprise that I have nothing to add there. Defense wins championships. We don't have any of that in the Mile High Pepsi Center City.

So, that leaves food.

Frankly, I'm all fooded-out, too.

If you're honest, you are too.

I've lost count of the many roasts of various animal that have passed into our ovens and out of our kitchen in the past month or so. Cow, turkey, pig, chicken.

Not to mention cookies, cakes, cupcakes, brownies, cheesecake, pie, homemade fudge, kisses, turtles, M&M's, snacks, dips, chips, crackers, pretzels, popcorn, pickles, peanuts, cashews, pecans, walnuts, shrimp, cheese spreads, red, green and purple grapes; pineapple, raspberries, strawberries, apples, cole slaw, lettuce salad, croissants, bisquits, cinnamon rolls, homemade yeast rolls, cornbread, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, fried potatoes, turkey dressing, homemade turkey gravy, homemade au jus, cream gravy, peas, broccoli, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, shallots, parsley, sage, horseradish cream, rare roast beef French dip sandwiches....

I call time out. See you Monday.

oomPA loomPA doom-PA-dee-do

"It's a big game, everyone. And this means two things: USC wins, and Pete Carroll outcoaches the poor schlub on the other sideline.


"Are we all on the same path? Good, because now I'm driving so far off the road they'll need JoePa's Coke bottle glasses to find me.


"Penn State will beat USC in the Rose Bowl. And that, of course, means Joe Paterno -- all eight decades of him -- will outsmart the hippest, hottest coach in college football."

Matt Hayes, 12/30/08 - http://www.sportingnews.com/

Rey Rey

When I was a student at USC, nothing was bigger for the football program than to earn a trip to the Rose Bowl. That continued to be true through the BCS era until Pete Carroll arrived. From his second year forward, nothing has been bigger than the Rose Bowl except the BCS National Championship game. For each of the past three seasons, USC has coughed up a single, ugly conference "L" on the ledger, by a total of 11 points, to keep them at "home" in Pasadena.

Three years ago, all SC had to do was beat UCLA in December at the Rose Bowl. "L." By four points.

Last year, all SC had to do was beat Stanford at home, carrying a Las Vegas line of -41 points. "L." By one point.

This year, SC drew Oregon State in a Thursday night game, especially rescheduled for the benefit of ESPN. "L." By six points. Nothing looked right from the opening snap and stayed that way for four quarters.

So, when USC took the field yesterday afternoon against a team from the Big Ten that was 'one point away from the national championship game,' I knew what was going to happen. It's happened this way for three consecutive years.

The Trojans can't run the table in their beleagured league (that went 5-0 in post season bowls this year, however). But, they can open the nose of whatever big game opponent they meet at the end.

This year was supposed to be different. Penn State wasn't just another, "three yards and a cloud of dust" team. This was a top ten team, that took a stupid conference loss like SC had done, losing by one point on a last-second field goal. This was a team coached by a living legend. Their own fans may not like his age, chair location, inability to quote current events, or unwillingness to wish everyone a happy new year. But, there was no mistaking the outstanding character and playmaking ability of his quarterback and the serious tone the players adopted from their leader.

The USC coaching staff needed only one quarter to make the kind of adjustments they normally don't make until halftime. A month of film-watching always seems to offer up the Achilles Heel. The soft spots. The obvious cover-three defensive system that was never going to keep USC's offense off the field.

They opened the play book for a quarter. They closed it in the third quarter. Then, when Penn State scored again, they opened it again. Four plays, touchdown. Then, they closed it again.

There was no reason to run up the score. Nothing was going to change the fact that USC had already lost the opportunity to play for the national championship in September.

Other teams across the nation can lose late in the season, even lose the very last game of their season, and go on to the BCS title game.

It won't keep another 10 USC players from being drafted into the NFL in April. That's not going to change either.

Fight ON!!!!