When Pigs Fly

Sweetest Little

2011-04-16T13:54:00.021-06:00

"I didn't know how babies were made until I was pregnant with my fourth child."

Loretta Lynn

The week before birthday week this year, I arrived home from the office to a box on the counter for something I knew I hadn't ordered. Yes, the box was addressed to me. It had shipped from Lenexa, Kansas via someone, something, or someplace called "The Grommet."

Indeed, inside was a gift from a colleague who shares a monthly mail-watch for the Cambria Cove catalog. Although this gift is now available in lots of places in several colors, my box held the original baby pink electric appliance known as "Babycakes" that we both first observed therein. This discovery came a few months after we had elected to eat dessert first on a business trip to Overland Park, Kansas; when the bistro we'd targeted for dinner was closed for a special event, we just went across the street to a cupcake shop, sampled four of their creations, and downed the whole thing with ice-cold milk. Since then, we've had a unique internal radar for cupcake imagery, if not the real thing.

Anyway, the Babycakes is basically like a waffle iron for two-inch cupcakes and anything else I might want to concoct, so long as it's acceptable to form it into a two-inch something.

The inside has eight cups, and the whole surface is non-stick. Inside the box, I also found a small bag with a pastry bag and a couple of tips. I don't need it, since I have an entire set of bags and tips already; but, I don't throw anything away in this department - ever. I stored it in the bottom cabinet drawer where all the baking supplies live in our kitchen. It would be a good thing for a novice baker to use for "practice" some day. She knows who she is....

Another bag held a couple of rings. The people who created this appliance had the good sense to flute the edges of the baking cups and calculate the precise sized circle of pastry dough that would fit; then, also provide the cutter to do that. Not stopping there, the other ring can be used to press the precisely-sized dough circle into the cup and onto the flutes. Genius. Perfect for any miniature pie of any sort - pumpkin for Thanksgiving, pecan for Christmas, quiche for whenever, and so forth.

I looked forward to test-driving this little cupcake maker today and decided to keep it simple with one of the "emergency" boxed cake mixes from the pantry. Ever mindful of the altitude instructions, I used them - not knowing if the enclosed baking compartment of this unit would need the adjustment. After more than eight years, I'm still learning about the science of high-altitude baking and believe, but am unsure, that the "open" nature of a cupcake tin in a standard oven helps to create the air bubbles, popping, and endless rising of batter that usually results in an overly airy finished cake.

The instructions said to put about two tablespoons of batter in each cup, which I wasn't too disciplined about. However, with the first batch, I was remembering what happens when a waffle iron is over-filled and anticipated that I might have created a mess for myself. I had already read the directions when the box first arrived, but forgot to reread them before pre-heating the unit. The battle popped and sizzled as it hit the fully pre-heated unit; I thought I had invited another disaster. But, no! The directions said that it was OK to put the batter in the pre-heated unit - that it wouldn't affect the results. How could that be?

The first batch was perfect after five minutes, just as predicted. I unplugged Babycakes and began to gently prod around the edges with a dull knife to see if the nonstick surface had performed. All eight cupcakes were baked and popped right out. Too good to be true?

I put the second batch in the unplugged, cooling unit; then, closed the lid and plugged it back into the socket. Five minutes later, the cakes were done again. But, I found that this batch was sticking. They didn't really tear, but they weren't as perfect as batch #1. Since I don't have to be told twice, I decided that the best results came from putting the batter in the preheated unit because the bottom began baking before the rest of the cake. I don't know if that's true. But, it's my story and I'm "sticking" to it, since all the remaining cakes popped out after having been started this way. CRD Science 101.

The yield was predicted to be somewhere between 44 and 48 of these little babies. But, since I was profligate and imprecise with the batter, I only got 37 Babycakes. I haven't decided how I will finish them, but I'm almost equally a Frosting vs. Cake Girl. So, there will be frosting.

Observing how uniform and "perfect" this batch of cakes looked compared to anything miniature I've tried to bake in Colorado, I began to fret that they wouldn't taste or "feel" like cake. That they would be more like a chocolate muffin. But, again, no worries there. In fact, the process of baking the cake in the enclosed unit prevented the ungainly rising and resulted in a denser, more from-scratch like texture. Like all cakes, they will be even better tomorrow.

What a discovery! Dr. Jayhawk is moving in on the deal, already suggesting that his favorite blueberry muffins would be more perfect in the Babycakes. I can see all kinds of advantages to this thing, especially during hot weather. Fortunately, we don't have that much of it. But, no one - with me first in that line - wants to turn on the "big" oven when it's hot, any time of year. It's also possible to make just enough batter for as few as eight cakes. Portion control emerges in the form of recipe control, which has always been there for the taking in cupcake tins also; but, for which none of us has probably taken the time to figure it out.

The latest issue of the Cambria Cove catalog suggests that the manufacturer is doing quite well, as we can now order a whoopie pie maker and a cake ball maker from them, too. Probably for unit integrity issues, but maybe for other not-as-smart reasons, they may have overplayed their hand. I don't have time, inclination, or space for any more "cake" makers. Dr. Jayhawk asked why they didn't make the unit with interchangable plates, too. It's so obvious, an attorney could see it.

Oh well, here's to American Ingenuity, Capitalism, and cupcake goodness. In any size.

Unsettled, with a Chance of Cupcakes

2011-04-09T13:36:00.007-06:00

"O, the land of cloudless day,

O, the land of an unclouded day,

O, they me tell of a home where no storm clouds rise,

O, they me tell of an unclouded day."

Joshua K. Alwood, 1800

I break for Spring. Since we moved here in 2002 and experienced our first "spring" in 2003, we have duly noted that it's unlike any spring we've ever experienced anywhere else.

It's more confounding than Fall, which also goes through transition pangs resulting in a decision to wear a wool sweater on a day that ultimately goes to a high of 75. Or, a cotton shirt without a jacket on a day that opens at 70 and lows to 30 by mid-afternoon.

Pity the trees and shrubs that don't know whether to wake up or stay asleep. Most can't control themselves, setting buds with abandon; only to have a load of heavy, wet snow arrive like a new dress for Easter.

So, in honor of that time on the calendar when others are breaking for Spring, even though we're not sure when it started or where it will end, I hereby put When Pigs Fly under the safe cover of hiatus.

It's a good time to stay low to the ground.

All Things Being Equal

2011-04-02T15:40:00.022-06:00

"England defeats United States 2-1; USA: first loss to England since 1988.

ESPN crawl - 3:10 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time, April 2, 2011

It's almost time for Butler vs. VCU - the first of two Final Four semifinal games. We were hoping it would be Butler vs. Kansas, even though we rooted for the Indiana Cinderella to defeat Duke in the championship game last year. It's hard to think of Butler as a Cinderella this year, into the Final Four for the second consecutive year. And, VCU just gets stronger with each new group of pundit-naysayers declaring that they can't possibly beat whoever they're playing next.

Caution persists now among those same talking heads, as I've heard all week that it's hard to pick against VCU, based on their five consecutive wins in a tournament they weren't good enough to make; and their dismantling of Kansas, the only number one-seeded team remaining until last Sunday. I'm not sure how much credit to give VCU, as the jaw-dropping upsets of a Bill Self-coached Kansas team at tournament time are well-known by now, having been chronicled in When Pigs Fly. (Insert smiley face here.)

I could say that we're used to it. But, frankly, you never get used to losing like that. It's likely all the more stunning because Kansas frequently fields a very competitive team and tallies so many wins through a season, they look like they can't be stopped. I won't dismiss VCU by saying that Kansas beat themselves last weekend; but, it sure felt like that at times. Their senior (usually sharp) three-point shooters were cold as ice. It was ugly early and felt like a loss by the middle of the first half. We watched to the bitter end, because that's what we do. For either the USC Trojans in football or the Kansas Jayhawks in basketball, we believe that it's not over until it's over.

Well, it was and is truly over; and, that means that I mostly hang up the Mrs. Jayhawk mantle for another few months. Today, I'm a Butler Bulldog. I know that logic would suggest that I root for the team that knocked out my team. But, I don't have an emotional investment in VCU and continue to subscribe to the sentiment that they can't stay hot forever. By the time you read this post, we'll know for a certainty. My father is from Indiana; and, Mark's mother's family is from Indianapolis. So, we don't need to find our True North to know who to support when things get tough. It's a no-brainer.

Speaking of brains, it's multiple-birthday month in the Dickerson household. Mark kicks it off every year by conveniently having his birthday fall on the first day. That's right - he's an April Fools' baby.

I've known him almost 43 years; and I got the story straight just this week. I had been telling everyone that his father had told friends that the baby was due on April 1; and, that, if actually born on that day - regardless of gender - he planned to name the baby "April."

Wrong.

I don't know if the story has changed or I wasn't listening or I was listening too fast. The real story (now) is that his parents were able to choose the date of his birth and deliberately chose April 1. His father's naming story - as apparently recounted from the pulpit throughout Mark's formative years - was that he would name the baby "April" if it was a girl and "Fool" if it was a boy.

Well, the joke was on him. Mark was brilliant. He is also one of the most brilliant males of the human race I've ever known. That's why he's Mr. CRD. Well, one of the reasons. (Insert winking smiley face here.)

A bunch of other birthdays will come and go in our family and among friends before month's end. Easter is late this year; so, we'll have more than our fair share of opportunities to eat sweet things. It's probably a good thing that we get most of this kind of thing out of the way relatively early in the year.

I was sifting through a stack of greeting cards I've saved over the years and found a preponderance of flying pig and pig-related graphics. I suppose I could be known for other, more substantive things and pithy sayings, but the "When Pigs Fly" moniker fits and sticks.

Good thing, too. I have a few personal projects that I feel would be improved by flight. A couple of them feel like a 250-pound hog in a pink tutu. All I need is some wings for those porkers, and off I'll go.

The piano needs to be tuned. I can't do that myself; but, I could make the phone call. That sucker is going to sit there as just another large piece of furniture to be dusted if I don't get on it soon. I sat down to it last night and almost fell off the bench when I realized how bad it's become over the past few months. I'm a phone call away from making that pig fly. It should not be so hard to do. But, when will I both be in town and at home to have this task completed?

It's not looking good during birthday month. May? Maybe.

I have purchased a few of those little sample bottles of paint that are now so readily available (where were they hiding before they were so readily available?). I don't do large-scale projects myself. But, I have a couple of spaces that I can easily do myself. I just need to do it. Well, I just need to decide on colors. THEN, I just need to do it.

Why are these decisions so hard? I used to work in homebuilding, for crying out loud. I had no problem deciding what to paint a model home owned by someone else. But, I also have a file folder full of ideas that I've accumulated since we moved into the house in 2002. I have a self-inflicted case of the "Tyranny of Indecision." A subject for another post on another day.

This paint pig has the "I'm fixin' to start" problem. All I really need to do is just make a choice.

Without the distraction of college basketball, I should do what I do best: focus, choose, do.

Maybe I'll take a look at that paint folder during the Butler game. Although, it's a really tight contest here at 4:51 to go in the first half.

I should probably go through my e-mails and find the name of that piano tuner I was going to call just before Christmas...

...momentum seems to be swinging back to Butler.

...what time does the other national semi-final game start?

...pigs lined up like jets at O'Hare....

...this little piggy ate roast beef...

...what are we going to eat tonight...

...I should really get the clothes out of the dryer and fold them at halftime...

...where's Dr. Jayhawk?

Fly Away Home

2011-03-26T10:08:00.043-06:00

Going-Away Party Cake at Young & Rubicam/Los Angeles August, 1981

Crossing the state line August, 1981.

Leaving California with remaining possessions and wedding gifts; squeezing Maid of Honor into picture, October 29, 1981.

Teasing University of Oklahoma friend/alum long-distance from Alameda, California after University of Kansas "Danny & The Miracles" Jayhawks defeat OU for 1988 NCAA Men's Basketball National Championship: Mark Alan Dickerson, USC'77 B.S., Political Science & KU'81 J.D. and Shannon Gayle Dickerson, future University of Nebraska, Lincoln'10 B.S., College of Business - Marketing; on April 4, 1988, 17 days before Miss Dickerson's first birthday.

“Kansas is a state of the Union, but it is also a state of mind, a neurotic condition, a psychological phase, a symptom, indeed, something undreamed of in your philosophy, an inferiority complex against the tricks and manners of plutocracy -- social, political and economic.”

William Allen White, American Journalist known as the Sage of Emporia (1868-1944)

"I don't know if I want to go to New York. They'll have to pay me a lot more money because I like it here in Kansas City."

Roger Maris, American professional baseball player (1934-1985)

As Madness Marches forward, I'm orchestrating my day around a schedule of broadcasts for which no one consulted me. If I want to be at the proper angle for flatscreen viewing, I'll need to take my seat by 2:30 pm Mountain, to be followed by the tip of the only other game that matters today at 5:05 pm. I'll repeat this process by 12:20 p.m. tomorrow, the broadcast time for the next match slated to fray my nerves. A fourth game is scheduled; but, if the Jayhawks don't defeat the inexplicable Virginia Commonwealth Rams before that, my Mrs. Jayhawk duties will be complete for another year. And, I'll be sad. Very, very sad.

Look what Dr. Jayhawk hath wrought. As he mellows with age, I'm on pins and needles. Frankly, I think he's twisting on that prickly seat as well. He's just learned how to submerge his angst so he can feign amusement at me. I returned late yesterday afternoon from four days of business travel to Kansas City - Jayhawk Land - with a fresh, new cotton KU shirt for him. He didn't cut off the tag until the team blew the Richmond Spiders back to Virginia in a gusty Kansas wind of basketball tutelage by 20 points.

We're always superstitious that way. My nerves are all his fault. Prior to 1981, I didn't care about the University of Kansas or the Jayhawks. Almost 30 years later, I'm completely in. "All In."

One of his many large, framed certificates of accomplishment says that the University of Kansas School of Law conferred on him the degree of Juris Doctor on January 9, 1981. But the School of Law didn't have a mid-year commencement, and his ceremony was not held until May. Though not impossible, it's unlikely we would be married if the KU School of Law had not made their graduates wait until a certain weekend in May. Sort of coincidentally, I decided to visit family in Olathe on that same weekend. The story of why I was there on that particular weekend has nothing to do with the availability of the relatives and everything to do with the fact that, if I was in the vicinity of Lawrence, Kansas on that weekend, I would get to see Mark for lunch.

We had disbanded our relationship more than four years prior, and I was curious to see what a period of graduate school at Magdalen College in Oxford, England and three years of law school had done to someone I had known for 13 years. We were what felt like light years away from our undergraduate experiences at USC. I was employed by the largest advertising agency in the world and based in Los Angeles. I wasn't going to move - for anyone - unless it was to go to New York City.

Lunch turned into afternoon window shopping on The Plaza. To prolong the time, he suggested that I should see KU. So I would know where he had been all this time. It's not like I was completely mesmerized by the campus, although it had - and has - several notable high points, vistas, venerable old buildings, and the like. Most of our major college campuses in America can say the same.

But, I was in tears by the time the driving tour had ended. It was unplanned, unexpected, not motivated by any intent to manipulate his emotions. I was mourning the loss of sharing his KU experience with him. I didn't like the way it felt. I didn't want to feel that way anymore. But, he had joined a law firm in Wichita, and I wasn't going to move for anyone. Repeat after me - "unless it was to go to New York City."

Yes, he had been too busy as a law student to sleep in a tent to get the coveted first-come, first-served student seats for the home basketball games. He'd study until the last minute before games, which were conveniently located just across the street from the School of Law at Allen Fieldhouse. Then, he'd get in line, show his student pass, and take a position in what was left - the rafters. But, he was in. In. "In." And, he would have gotten me in somehow, too. He was like that. He is like that.

The only time I've ever been in Allen Fieldhouse was for a campus visit in May, 2006 when Shannon was transferring from USC to...somewhere... to play soccer. We drove over to Lawrence on Memorial Day weekend and got the VIP tour. Standing in "The Phog" gave me the chills. The echos were haunting. The missed opportunities continued to haunt me, too.

I may never attend a home game there. I have seen the Jayhawks play in person - but, it was in California or Boulder, Colorado. It's not the same. I can't get those years back. Perhaps I've been trying to make up for it ever since. It's not like I was meant to be in Lawrence, Kansas when Mark was in Law School. I don't think we were meant to be married until we were - on October 24, 1981.

I left Lawrence that day in May, 1981 for the ride back to Olathe with a heart filled with despair and sadness. He decided that he should drive over to see me again on Sunday night, and my relatives kindly invited him for something to eat at their home. Before the dishes were even cleared, he was figuratively on one knee in their living room.

I said "yes." But, I didn't know what I was going to do next. After all, I wasn't going to move for anyone.

But, I did. And, he did. And, we did.

And, the University of Kansas and the team many love to hate, the Kansas Jayhawks, will always be linked to that day in May.

Don't Pick Me, Bro

2011-03-19T10:46:00.024-06:00

"The NCAA Men's Division I Basketball Championship is a single elimination tournament held each spring in the United States, featuring 68 college basketball teams, both conference champions and at-large selections. The tournament, organized by the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA), was created in 1939 by the National Association of Basketball Coaches and was the brainchild of Kansas coach Phog Allen. Held mostly in March, it is informally known as March Madness or the Big Dance; the tournament, and especially the national semi-finals and final (the Final Four), has become one of the nation's most prominent sporting events."

Wikipedia page for "NCAA Men's Division I Basketball Championship," March 17, 2011

I made sacrifices for the team last night. It's not the first time.

I can read the pivotal moment like the veteran I am; I could see that Kansas would only be able to throw down the hammer on their #16-seeded opponent in the second round of the Big Dance if I left the room.

It was time to start the laundry.

Make no mistake. I'd waited all day for this game, just like Mr. Jayhawk. I had ordered my time, my tasks, and my pre-game meal around what would put me in the best possible position for focus. To do what would be best for the team.

After several years - some of them recent - when Kansas exited this annual tilt "prematurely" (which means, earlier than the pundits, fans, alums, and fans-by-marriage had expected or been told to expect based on a myriad of multivariate factors and statistics), I was ready for anything. This year's seeding and draw had two overwhelmingly disturbing attributes.

Namely, the "B" jinx.

And, in the history of the tournament, the "no 16-seed has ever defeated a one-seed" jinx.

These two pithy problems were compounded by what I like to call the "Commander-in-Chief Jinx," which was revealed while I was in a St. Louis-area hotel room earlier in the week. I groaned aloud and wondered why he didn't choose to pander for Ohio votes by naming the Buckeyes. We've already been down this road before. Specifically, last year. And, everyone knows what happened. If they don't, they get to hear about it this year every time the Jayhawks take the floor. To wit, the Northern Iowa upset by a two-point basket that was swiftly and predictably followed by the ousting of said Panthers by Michigan State in the next round.

So, I think the track record of the CIC speaks long and loudly for itself - in all matters of men's basketball and well beyond. I'm not sure how the University of Connecticut women's basketball program escapes this burden. But, I'm expecting them to do it again this year. It feels like Maya Moore is a tenth-year senior. If she shows up for pre-season next year, I think the NCAA should look into the situation.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

The "no 16-seed has ever defeated a one-seed in the history of the tournament" jinx just seemed ripe for the picking by the team from the program that basically invented the game. That the coach for which their Fieldhouse is named (Allen), launching the infamous warning ("Beware of the Phog"), was the champion for this madness in the first place would suggest to me that the 2011 edition of the Mythical Birds was well-positioned to take this hit. If the cumulative layering of jinxing was firing on all cylinders, then multiplying the CIC jinx by the one-seed jinx would equal a perfect storm for program ridicule to Infinity. And, beyond.

So, it was no surprise to me that Boston University came out shooting from beyond the arc like a four-seed. That the Jayhawks appeared to have forgotten their offensive answer(s) to the 2-3 zone defense. And, perhaps in a nod to UNI in 2010, that they were making BU's perimeter shooters look like they were NBA ringers in the first half.

Yes, certainly, KU was adjusting and beginning to modestly take control just before halftime. But, it wasn't enough. Not enough to stop worrying about that other, mysterious jinx.

The "B" jinx.

On my life, I was there; but, I didn't see the upset by one point coming in 2005 to the Bucknell Bison. A 14-seed with zero NCAA Tournament victories in its 110-year history, five scholarship players and even a borrowed band. I guess that qualified as a double-B jinx - as in, "Bucknell Band." An oxymoron.

On my life, I was there; but, I didn't see the upset by four points coming in 2006 to the Bradley Braves. A 13-seed that gave a team that had nothing to do with what was by then known as the "Bucknell Bummer" something to think about.

Separately, why do all these "B" teams have mascots with "B" names? Okay, Kansas was a very young team that year. But, old enough to be named a four-seed.

So, I was watching a slow-paced, slug-fest against another "B" team last night and trying to shake the jinx. I considered that - maybe - a review of all the associated "B" names that haven't exactly been bad luck for Kansas would help.

"Bill." Self, the head coach. "Brady." Morningstar, the marvelous senior from the backyard of Lawrence, Kansas who, periodically, shoots three-pointers unconsciously. "Baylor." A team that under-performed this season and presented no threat. In fact, they dutifully reclined a la doormat in Waco for their home game against the Jayhawks this year. Booya!!

"Big." For Big XII - their conference.

Oops. Maybe that's a bad choice, since the Big XII is currently only the Big X after two defections by Nebraska and Colorado. Which is a problem in the Big Ten, now with 12 teams playing next year and a huge marketing stumble trying to decide what to call themselves and explain why they have 12 teams.

They finally settled on BIG. Which, I guess is as good as anything. But, that doesn't help Kansas. At least, I don't think so.

No, now I could only hear in my head the B names with a less-than-silver lining. Bucknell. Bradley. BIG. Barack. Boston.

I had already spoken to ma boy, Thomas Robinson, about what he needed to do. And, with the playing time he was given, he was mostly doing it.

It was time to leave the room.

It worked on April 7, 2008. Not only did I leave the room - I turned off the TV and went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Bedroom. B-word. I flipped on a different TV and got a different result - a three-pointer by Mario Chalmers with time running out on the clock to put Kansas into overtime and eventually defeat Memphis. A team that was later found to be dirtier than dirt, requiring them to vacate that season and that loss on their side of the ledger.

So, I left Mr. Jayhawk to fume and sweat over a six-point lead and started the washer.

I found a few other things to do. I managed to occupy myself, listening only for signs of distress from himself or to recognize if something good was happening for Kansas based on crowd noise levels.

I heard a big roar. But, I was disciplined. I stayed in my passing lane and out of the room.

I heard another big roar. I wasn't hearing anything from Mr. Jayhawk and wondered if he, too, had left the room. But, I stayed focused and emptied a trash basket in the powder bathroom.

I heard another, HUGE roar. That's all I heard. But, in my self-sacrificing mode, I decided to brush my teeth.

Then, I heard another, hugely HUGE roar. I was thinking it was time to re-enter the field of battle. Before I could decide, I heard the reassuring seven-note bumper music that signals a time-out in March Madness. "duh-da-duh-da-DUH-Duh-Duh."

I ran (sort of) back to see what awesome awesomeness I had missed. Sure enough. I had taken one for the team.

I came around the corner to find that Kansas had hit three consecutive three-pointers after a Brady three-point attempt had first rimmed out.

They - and, I - never looked back.

Back. B word. As in, "I got yours."

Bill Self and the Jayhawks will now face Illinois in the third round. All things Illini hate Bill Self for leaving them to take the Kansas job.

I'm thinking of spending the game in the Basement.

Order of Magnitude

2011-03-12T13:05:00.008-07:00

"Japan Quake May Have Shortened Earth Days, Moved Axis"

Jet Propulsion Laboratory - March 11, 2011

My Saturday is a disjointed mix: devastating news stories and images from Japan, mundane chores with modern conveniences I take for granted every day until I see stories like Japan, and the uniquely-American college basketball conference tournaments.

I have nothing to complain about. I also have nothing to say. Since I try to stay disciplined about this weekly posting, I rationalize that I'll log on; write that I have nothing to say, then log off again.

What can be said that has not already been said? Been written? Been broadcast? Been tweeted, reposted on Facebook, witnessed on Youtube?

Nothing.

I am nothing. I know nothing...

But, I know whom I have believed. And am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto Him against that day.

On the Border

2011-03-05T19:09:00.007-07:00

"Kansas Seals Outright Big 12 Title With 70-66 Win Over Missouri"

KU Athletics

Columbia, Mo. - A powerful inside combination of Marcus Morris, Thomas Robinson, and Markieff Morris propelled the University of Kansas men's basketball team to a 70-66 win over the Missouri Tigers, Saturday, at Mizzou Arena.

Early in the second half, I began having a chat with My Boy, Thomas Robinson. I told him that it was time for him to take over the game. About 10 minutes later, Mr. Jayhawk turned and said unto me, "whatever you're saying to Thomas, please keep saying it!"

Yes. A Mother knows.

Looks like my job duties as Mrs. Jayhawk have been expanded.

If only I had power over sunspots, which are being blamed by CBS for abruptly ripping viewers away from an almost-but-not-quite-over rivalry game and season finale, with the outright Big 12 championship on the line. Their story is that the satellite transmission was cut; and, even though the announcers apparently continued to call the game, the Denver market got the dry, toasted opening few minutes of Oregon vs. Arizona instead. Online gametrackers were deployed, ESPN crawls were carefully inspected for any sign of bad fortune. Exhales were heard when the "Final Score Alert" showed that what we had left as a 13-point lead had dwindled to a four-point win. But, a win is a win.

Who said that?

We didn't get to see the excitement and fireworks of the last 3:28 of this Kansas vs. Missouri grind fest. But, if we lived in metro Kansas City this evening, we'd get to see a replay of the entire second half after the 10:30 news.

Mr. Jayhawk now officially holds CBS with the same disdain as Microsoft. Yep, it's that bad. He thinks they invented the sunspot story this afternoon to cover their switch for contractual reasons.

Oh, well. I have a SUPER busy week ahead and won't be home for four days. So, there is simply a limit to how much Mrs. Jayhawk can absorb this evening.

Just win, baby.

Like a Rock

2011-02-26T22:36:00.028-07:00

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Some bright morning when this life is over, I'll fly away
To a land on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away

When the shadows of this life have grown, I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Oh how glad and happy when we meet, I'll fly away
No more cold iron shackles on my feet, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Just a few more weary days and then, I'll fly away
To a land where joy will never end, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallellujah by and by, I'll fly away

Albert E. Brumley, shape note gospel music composer and publisher, 1905-1977

“Oh that I had wings like a dove, I would flyaway and be at rest.”

Psalm 55:6

"Rock Chalk, Jayhawk, KU"

University of Kansas Jayhawks Chant

I find myself abruptly at the end of February, suddenly looking ahead to March as though I've had no warning. According to the Blackberry calendar, I have a month of almost non-stop travel. The Day Planner of my alternate personality, Mrs. Jayhawk, looks like more fun. March Madness!! Game after game after game of collegiate nonsense, upsets, Cinderella stories, injuries, unrealized potential, and spoilers. Madness, indeed...

Every year is a unique adventure of sameness and the unexpected. I always stand guard early, waiting to take the emotional temperature of Mr. Jayhawk as the season progresses. Once upon a time, his mood would rise and fall with Jayhawk fortunes; at tournament time, he'd stop watching the thing altogether as soon as Kansas was out of it. As in other things, time has mellowed him to a sort of pragmatic, "they're 20-year-old kids" response of satisficing. Since we have lives and our own couple of 20-somethings with their own issues, this evolution is helpful.

Every season of sports - college and professional - brings a new raft of heart-wrenching stories of personal loss - the kind of five-minute ESPN packages that bolt me to the floor, bring tears to my eyes, and never fail to remind me of how I am personally blessed and how much Grace we have been collectively granted as a family.

From the jump, I was riveted as the story of this year's edition of the Kansas Jayhawks began to emerge. They were thoroughly outplaying expectations. The losses to graduation and the NBA would have brought many talented programs to their rebuilding knees. But, somehow, with each contest, this roster began to look like a championship contender. As the team piled win upon win, I began to wonder what circumstances would conspire to bring them their first loss. I was paying some attention to the stories about one of the young players who had lost both of his grandparents within a few days of each other.

But, the morning of their home game against Texas, I felt like a real alumni with close ties - not just a fan by marriage - as I absorbed the news that his too-young mother had died too soon the night before. Leaving him, at the tender age of 19, without an adult family member. And, leaving him with a lonely little seven-year-old sister 2000 miles away.

Incredibly, the announcers were saying that he was not only with the team, but that he expected to play. The whole roster came out in the first half with their hair and pants on fire and looked like they were going to pound Texas back to the Stone Age. Up-all-night fatigue overtook them in the second half, and they dropped the game in front of a national CBS audience.

I've been unable to shake this personal story of Number Zero - the subject of hundreds of "Zero is My Hero" shirts issued the past four weeks in Kansas Crimson and Blue. Particularly, I've been unable to shake that the personal story of tragedies of one Thomas Robinson have been borne beneath the glare and scrutiny of public eyes.

He doesn't know me from a fly on the wall. But, I send him messages of encouragement on Twitter after every game. I can only imagine how many hundreds of other such messages he's receiving.

As for the fortunes of Kansas in the NCAA Tournament this year, I believe one thing. And, one thing only: the Kansas Jayhawks will advance as deep into that tournament as Thomas Robinson is healthy and plays his role. The team's second of only two losses during the regular season had everything to do with Thomas Robinson - again. At Kansas State, they were blown off the court while T-Rob sat in street clothes on the bench, nursing a torn meniscus repair.

That's all I need to know.

I'm sure I'm not the only Jayhawk supporter that wishes I could fill the holes in his heart. I am uplifted by his performance every time he asserts his will in a game when his monstrously talented teammates are sagging. The whole dynamic of his on-court performance versus his off-court challenges will be revisited until the team wins the national championship or their post-season ends, whichever comes first.

May the best team win. May mothers' and fathers' sons from around the country stay out of harm's way and play to their potential.

Rock Chalk, Thomas Robinson.

http://www.kansan.com/news/2011/jan/27/robinson

Nose Job

2011-02-19T16:47:00.024-07:00

"Myth: Three Americans every year die from rabies. Fact: Four Americans every year die from rabies."

Michael Scott - "The Office" - Season 4 "Fun Run."

"I'm one stomach flu away from my goal weight."

Emily Charlton - "The Devil Wears Prada."

A week ago, I declared that I thought I had sinusitis but was mistaken. Today, I'm reporting that I was right the first time. By Wednesday, the pain in my forehead, nose, cheek, and ear on the left side reached fever pitch. That, too - about 99.8.

I try not to run to the doctor at the first sign of pain - even when it spans several interrelated body parts. But, after not really sleeping much on Wednesday night, I decided that Thursday was the day. Sure enough, the doctor confidently announced, "Oh YEAH, you really have sinusitis - I'm sure."

It's not like I tried to sell him on the theory. The walking symptoms are all too-familiar to me. The trick is to wait long enough to be sure that I'll leave the doctor's office the first time with the medications I need to beat it; but, not long enough for my face to swell up too much, elephant-man style. I've actually mismanaged this dilemma while traveling for business, since I once failed to sound the alarm bell before leaving town. In that instance, I raced through south suburban Salt Lake City in a rental car with only 35 minutes left before the urgent care facility closed for the day. Anything to avoid the ER charge. By the time I got there, with 10 minutes to spare, the lump on the right side of my nose did my talking for me. Another round of another doctor's new favorite antibiotic for sinusitis.

This week, I might have outsmarted myself. I was certain that the pressure in my ear drum had prevented me from hearing clearly when the doctor proudly pronounced the name of the antibiotic du jour.

"Ciprofloxacin!"

He fairly pumped his fist in the air at the mention, as I stuttered something like, "....did you just say CIPRO???"

Yes, he did. Say Ciprofloxacin. Cipro.

I've only experienced the nuclear medication that is Cipro one other time in my life. The ailment was entirely different, the circumstances of which will not be discussed here. Suffice to say, the remedy was more challenging than the ailment; which had been foreshadowed when that particular doctor had noted that "Cipro kills everything!"

What, exactly, was meant by "everything?" I had wondered at the time which part of me would constitute everything and hoped it wasn't all of me.

If you've ever downed Cipro, you'll understand what I mean when I say that the first couple of days on this drug make you feel like a copper penny flattened by a freight train. Like the doctor forgot to give you a prescription for the antidote that will permit you to do the remedial things. Like walk, eat, and sleep.

Of course, it's important to note that it also "works" for the thing you're trying to overcome. So, that's helpful.

If you're thinking that you've heard the word "Cipro" before, and it wasn't in the context of sinusitis, you would be correct. In all likelihood, you're thinking that it had something to do with national security. You would be right again.

You're probably an avid reader of the National Institutes of Health website and remember now that Cipro is used to treat or prevent dangerous exposures that are deliberately spread. Things like anthrax, plague, and tularemia. Stuff that could happen during biological warfare.

Sounds serious, right? I thought so....

The list of side effects to expect, but that aren't serious enough to call the doctor, includes eight items. The list of side effects that are serious enough to discontinue use and call the doctor numbers 34 items. Reflecting on my day so far, influenced by my active imagination, I might believe I've experienced half the list by now.

But, it's also true that the original ailment is under control and improving. A little confusion, restlessness, and loss of appetite seems a small price to pay.

So long as I live to tell another tale next week....

Bunkum

2011-02-12T21:06:00.019-07:00

"I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything."

Anne Sexton, in a letter to W.D. Snodgrass on November 28, 1958.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...

At the end of a very challenging week, I'm tired. Not speechless, but not particularly able to concoct a story, recount a fable, or state a position. I'm tempted to make no entry in WPF. But, this moment is exactly the kind of time I should push myself - to see if I can create something - anything - out of thin air.

It's for the brain exercise. For the challenge. I don't want to do it. But, I'm stubborn.

We had a lot of weather this week. We, the residents of Highlands Ranch, Colorado; and we, the people of the United States of America. From Saturday to Saturday, almost two feet of the white stuff fell on our driveway. As recently as Friday afternoon, as the temperature managed to reach up into the 40's again, we still had 12" white borders all around the concrete sidewalks.

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens....

Meredith thought she had developed bronchitis - she's so rarely sick, she doesn't know a common virus when she gets one. A trip to the Student Health Center yielded prescriptions, a reason to go off-campus to eat, and an upbeat spirit.

I thought I had sinusitis. I so frequently get it, I almost think I have it all the time. Next to the Zyrtec tablet I swallow daily, year-round, I found what is clearly a Wonder Drug: Sudafed Triple Action. A pain reliever, nasal decongestant, and expectorant. My life is likely changed forever. I didn't have sinusitis. I worked 24 hours the last two days of the week, ending on a relative high note.

Brown paper packages tied up with strings....

I'm not depressed by weather - moving to Colorado in 2002 and re-engaging in four seasons made me stronger. I don't apologize for not driving on frozen streets, but I can drive on six inches of slush with the best of them.

I chose not to do either this week, sequestering myself in my wonderful home on purpose. I know a time when I would have felt that I had missed something by not being out and about. But, I think those days may be over. Nothing left to prove? Maybe. Nothing left to do? Never. But, I have more ways to do the things I want to do now than I did in the 20th Century.

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels...

Is this feeling the dreaded and awaited aging process? Maybe. A consequence of social networking? Naturally. A seasonal predilection? Likely.

My biggest challenge is suppressing my frustration when, within a month following the demise of daylight savings time, I realize that "day" has always been defined in my mind as "daylight." On those days when "day" ends at about 4:30, when the sun falls behind the Front Range and disappears into the Rocky Mountains, I am at my most sullen. It's not that I can't do "day" things in the dark. It's just that the "day" seems over. Did I get my fair share of "day" hours for my "day" work?

Sunlight deprivation. Isn't there a vitamin pill for that?

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles...

I'm not very sentimental during the winter months. That's just wrong, isn't it, what with Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and Valentine's Day all wedged into this section of the nocturnal doings. How can that be?

A complex world - with wars, revolutions, disappearing fortunes, incessant unemployment, and all the uncertainty that goes with all of that - seems to be reducing to me to appreciate micro-seconds of good health and good fortune in a very different way. I'm still willing to stop and smell the roses (a figure of speech, here in the high alpine garden of 80126). But, I'm more about moving on. Progress. Next steps. The next move. The hope of a new day.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings...

I've never thought I was one to wallow in trivia. But, I am thankful for very little things and massively big things now -- all at the same time.

I believe I enjoy a very long list of those very little things. I KNOW that I own a very long list of very big things. I'm not the type that weeps at the sight of the first snow every year. I'm more into appreciating that moment when everyone in the household returns safely to the house after having to commute in it. Does that make me a stone? Can I be both a cock-eyed optimist and a surly pragmatist?

Time it was, and what a time it was; it was a time of innocence, a time of confidences.

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.

Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you.

Laissez le début des jeux

2011-02-05T16:18:00.027-07:00

"Good morning, good morning,

The best to you each morning.

Sunshine breakfast, Kellogg's Corn Flakes,

Crisp and full of fun."

Kellogg's Corn Flakes TV ad jingle, 1964

K - e - double l - o - double g - Good!

The weekend in 2011 now signals me to pick a topic for the blog thingy. Or, weave a story from my memory or imagination.

Super Bowl weekend is different. I'm starting on Saturday afternoon and won't publish until Monday. My co-workers in whatever office I'm working only want to know the answer from me to one question on Monday morning:

What was my favorite Super Bowl commercial?

Why?

What about that funny Bud Light ad?

OK, that's three questions.

Since 1984, it's seemingly been my duty to not only vote, but to give my marketing rationale. That, of course, was the year that Apple Computer changed the way advertisers viewed the Super Bowl. I had seen the storyboard in the summer of 1983. I was even asked my opinion by the general manager, because I was one of the youngest account executives in the office. I knew it was outrageous. I thought it could change the world. Somehow.

After Chiat/Day's media department "failed" (read: "didn't try") to sell back the million-dollar :60 time slot which ultimately aired a commercial costing just as much to produce in London, one million people lined up at Apple Stores (the old kind) the following week to see the debut of the new Macintosh. That was about $2.00 spent per person. Cheap in any language. Add in the approximate $18 million in unpaid media coverage as the spot ran over and over and over and over - everywhere; and - EVERYTHING changed.

I think it has changed again...

It's now Sunday evening. Almost half-time. I need that break, courtesy the Black Eyed Peas, since I don't leave the couch during the commercial breaks. And, the game has been interesting enough to keep me on the couch. Yes, I've been in this room a long time. I'm not keeping a scorecard of my favorite commercials here - just in my head. I'll know my top three spots when the game concludes. Maybe. It's becoming increasingly difficult with each passing year for me to "choose."

I already know what's NOT working for me. Excessive physical humor as the central storyline of a spot, so that rules out everything for Pepsi Max. Who thinks it's funny that a woman is berating a man for every bad thing he eats (remind you of anyone?), then throws a soda can that hits another woman, then runs away after leaving her on the ground? If the man was doing the berating and the can-throwing, would anyone think that was funny? What?

That spot - and the other two ads in the pool - had nothing to do with the product. If you blinked, you forgot the advertiser anyway.

That's my biggest pet peeve - someone will say "Oh, I LOVED that ad." Then, they proceed to name one of the advertiser's competitors as the sponsor. That's just dumb, Wally.

Anything resembling claymation with a gangsta rapper gets the old, heave-ho; so, I don't really care that Eminem won't do commercials. Although, he almost had me with "Imported from Detroit." One of my Facebook friends quipped that Eminem is the only person working in Detroit. Would be funnier if it weren't almost true. But, I can't root for him any more than I could cheer on Big Ben after his "personally challenging year." Sheesh. And, I'm not buying what he's selling either.

I call anything with a single sight gag automatically out - but, I'm giving the Doritos "Finger" and "Grandpa" spots a pass so far. The culture that has developed around the Super Bowl as it evolved from football championship game to marketing event to national event means that a one-time dose of humor may work better than a more creatively-layered message. Especially, for Nachos Doritos.

But, I'm old-fashioned. (Not old.)

Old-fashioned in the marketing purist sense. I don't mean to be a snob. I can't escape my experience any more than I can escape my gene pool. So, I'm 6 ft. 2 inches tall and think that the best advertising tells a story and makes an emotional connection. I can't escape a belief - an intrinsic value that belongs to me -that, if you're going to burn $3 million per :30 spot to run between the hedges today (that's the space inside the four-hour pre-game show and the 30-minute post-game show, just before the University of Southern California Trojan Marching Band appears on "Glee,"), you'd might as well make a solid point about your brand or product and try to persuade someone in the audience to remember your brand name. And buy your product.

I haven't seen the e*Trade baby yet - any baby - but, it would be difficult even for that crew to top "Shankapotamus." I've never tired of watching them try.

"Just a man and his smart phone - and an e*Trade app" comes really close. Especially when he breaks into "nobody know'd" in basso profundo. My relationship with that smart-mouth baby and his subsequent infant cohorts began on a Super Bowl Sunday. And, we remain close to this day.

So, game over; and, Green Bay wins the Super Bowl for the first time since I worked at Potlatch in the '90's and traveled there on business a few weeks after that win. The trip included a visit over to Lambeau, a twirl by the trophy, and $100 into the cash till of the souvenir shop. Green and gold shirts all around. Which, made no sense at all. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area at the time, and my husband wondered aloud how anyone in the family was supposed to leave the house in those clothes and get back home safely.

It's Monday already, and my conclusion about the 2011 advertising - even after sleeping on it - is that I didn't see anything great. I saw a couple of things that were "good." A few "OK," and a lot of stupid, silly, and pointless.

It leads me to observe that some of the best advertising on the air right now didn't make it to the Super Bowl. Although, who doesn't like to see an enormous log plow into Roseanne Barr? Everyone knows the Snickers gag now, but it still works. But, there will never be another "you're playing like Betty White."

Sure, a lot of advertisers probably didn't have the money or decided not to spend the money they have this year in this way. Or, it could be something more troubling.

Here's the question I'm asking myself: was the advertising on the Super Bowl last night there to advertise, promote, and persuade? Or, was it there to entertain?

Since the top-scoring spots in the Ad Meter test involved either animal(s) (dog(s)) or kid(s) (including a pint-sized Darth Vader), is the old adage still true? To wit....when you're out of creative ideas, insert *puppy* or *child* (here).

Is that the real reason that I'm so close to the e*Trade babies?

Generally, I now believe that this spectacle is too much, well, spectacle. Not enough game. Not enough real marketing.

Mostly cross-promotions: "Glee" singer from Fox hit show delivers histrionic rendition of "God Bless America" on Fox Sports-aired program. "Glee" advertises short version Chevy ad with "Glee" cast inside "Glee" program as ad on Super Bowl. Then, follows Super Bowl with full Chevy ad inside show as an ad break on "Glee." Are you with me?

Fox fills unsold inventory with ad after ad for their own shows that don't need any extra promotion ("Glee") or the next new show to come to the chopping block. What doesn't fall to the network is dominated by film trailers and other assorted garbage, such as Go Daddy.

The other "problem" for me is that, as recently as three years ago, no self-respecting advertiser would "leak" their Super Bowl spot a week before the big game in the full :60 length. Then, rack up 13,000,000 hits on YouTube and ultimately air the far less appealing :30 version during the game. With multiple social media tools - Twitter and Facebook included in this particular case -- did the advertiser get the same result, better results, or lesser results than would have accrued by running the :60 for the very first time in the second quarter?

I vote that the shock value has a dollar value yielded from emotional value. Otherwise, we're left with the shock value of most of the ad product yesterday: the one-trick joke, the one-time sight gag, offensive innuendo, lots of offensive innuendo, and less (Teleflora).

All of that notwithstanding, the ad tests and ad hoc comments on Facebook suggest that Volkswagen connected with consumers anyway. Either because they deserved to do so in the absolute or because their context in the Super Bowl environment of rubbish polished their brand by default. Or, because their leak favorably predisposed people to wait for it, like it again, and convince themselves it was exceedingly creative.

My opinion is that it is modestly creative. That it trades on the brand equity of an independent property is not a new technique. But, George Lucas isn't credited with the spot today. Deutsch/LA - what else you got?

It works. Probably because it reminded many of us about a time in our own household (recent or not-so-recent) where we messed with our kids' belief system. It's the same theme as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy; it just has a 21st Century twist. Or, does it? I saw "Star Wars" right out of college. Trust me, that is SO 20th Century....

While I was pondering this possibility with Mark last night, he revealed a story about doing something similar with our girls near the Shell station in Pleasant Hill, California. He was sitting in the car at a stoplight with Shannon and Meredith and timed the changing of the light from red to green as he watched the opposing green light change to yellow. He said, "Watch this." Of course, he then counted "...3...2...1," and the light MAGICALLY turned green. Shannon shrieked: "DADDY! How'd you do that?? Do it AGAIN!"

An eight-year-old and a three-year-old thought that either Dad truly was a magician, or that the reward for that yoke of a last name he'd dubbed them was an arsenal of Super Powers. Darth Vadar costume not included.

But, Quick! Without checking on YouTube first, name the featured car model in the VW ad.

If you can't do it - or, worse - you're wondering if I got the name of the car company wrong - perhaps you better understand what I'm trying to convey here.

It also felt like some brands were on the Super Bowl because they thought they were supposed to be there . Or, they were afraid that their competition would be there and they wouldn't, and they wouldn't then sell a few extra cans of sugar water/belly wash to the masses.

I give you the completely pointless ads aired by Coke. The fact that I could discern Coke as the advertiser in both cases well in advance of the reveal suggests that they have definitely found what someone in their organization believes is their tone and manner. That funky fire-breather ad was by Coke in my mind almost too soon.

So, here's the bottom line for me: I'm not sure the criteria I've always used to make my choice can actually be applied to most of the work I saw yesterday. Should I change my criteria and pick the best of the average and think in terms of who used the event best? Or, should I stick to my old criteria and confuse you completely by naming a commercial you don't even remember?

Hmmm.....what to do......

The best advertising I didn't see on the Super Bowl has been airing tonight - Monday night - on ESPN, during the Kansas vs. Missouri basketball game.

New stuff with the Old Spice guy...

The orange pretzel M&M on the couch next to a surly character actor on a show I don't watch...

"Chaos." (Allstate)

"That's logistics." (ups)

"What's in YOUR wallet?" (Capital One barbarians)

"Trouble." (Travelers Insurance) Yeah, it has a dog. But, the dog is the hero and tells us a story.

Did I mention the Old Spice guy?

And, Fight On, Clay Matthews III. Fight ON!!!

P.S. Passat.

1/100,000,000

2011-01-29T21:34:00.010-07:00

"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative."

Oscar Wilde, Irish Poet (1854-2000)

My periodic perusal of headline-style websites brings new dimension to the habit of Internet surfing. I can go a mile wide and an inch deep through a plethora of trivial and useless information faster that way.

Add my cell phone apps to this mix, and I'm willing to accept the moniker bestowed upon me by the meek and average in the second grade way-back machine: "Walking Set of Encyclopedias." If only they knew me now!

Google Queen.

For metallic leather shoes, the best way to either preserve or restore their luster is with the Tarrago Metallic Shoe Creme line. Bad scuffs can be re-dyed with the dye kit. Need to dye AND polish? Tarrago makes a kit containing both the dye and creme; save $4.00 per color with the combo kit.

I ordered Platinum #506 and High Silver #106.

Those hermetic jar seals on the French line of traditional canning jars (the kind with the clamp lid, not the screw-on lid) don't last forever. Container Store is chronically out-of-stock on replacement jar seals - I don't know the reason. But, beware of imitators! Those orange jar seals sold on Amazon for La Parfait may be counterfeit. Well, they do fit the French line, but they weren't actually made in France.

I haven't decided what to do yet. The measurements are listed in metric, and my jars have lid openings of 4" and 3-1/4" -- when we lived in northern California, these replacements seals were easy to find. I wonder if everyone is having problems finding them; or, if it's just that Denver doesn't have many specialty cooking stores in suburban neighborhoods; or, if things are so bad in California now that they can't find these jar seals either.

I "shoplifted" a bunch of replacement seals on Amazon. You know what I mean. You've probably done it, too. You're on a website, you put stuff in the cart, then you sneak off the web page without paying for it.

Some ingenious e-commerce sites send e-mails saying things like: "Did you forget to finalize your purchase on Crate & Barrel today?"

Busted.

So many of us may be doing it now, they're getting more desperate for closure. Last night, I received an e-mail offering me an additional 20% discount good for 24 hours if I would buy the stuff I left in my cart. It conveniently gave me a link that directed me right back to the exact spot where I fled the building....er, page.

Nice try!

I'm sure it actually works more than it doesn't work. They know it's cheaper to get a customer that was nine toes over the finish line than to drum up a new customer altogether.

Good stuff....

When we traveled with all the Dickersons (from the H. W. Dickerson branch) to Europe in 1985, we stayed at the Hotel Elizabethpark in Bad Gastein at the beginning of the trip. Alright, I know that was a really long time ago. And, according to Wikipedia, the population of Bad Gastein is up to a staggering 5,838 people now. But, does anyone know if they still have those dark green bar soaps in the rooms? I don't think so. I looked at the hotel website photos of the bathrooms, and I only see little bottles of clear liquid stuff on the counters.

Back in the day, I was so taken with these little rectangles that smelled of pine and laurel and verveine and a bunch of other green stuff, I cajoled Mark to walk down the street with me in the dead of Alpen winter into the village to buy six of the full-size bars from the local Apotheke. I eked out those bars for a very long time; in the days prior to the Internet, thinking I would never see them again anyway, I failed to save a wrapper. At least, I think that I didn't save one. In the meantime, we've moved from Alameda to Pleasant Hill to Highlands Ranch.

When someone asks me something I don't know, I say "let's go to the Google." I say it when someone wants to argue about something - anything. I don't believe it's the same thing as being intellectually lazy, since I'm actually seeking answers and intend to commit them to memory. To store them within the trillion cubbies inside my brain and hope that I'll be able to find 'em later, if I ever need 'em again.

I've been to the Google several times about this soap I loved in Austria. I've surfed and surfed. Over the past few years. And, recently. As recently as last night. It's highly possible that this soap doesn't exist anymore. It might have been a garden-variety grocery store type of product. You know, in the same way that Mercedes Benz is considered the middle class workhorse automobile of the common man in Germany.

Since it was a room amenity in a spa hotel located smack in the middle of a relatively tiny spa town in the state of Salzburg, I'm hoping that's not the case. But, I can't remember if it was from Austria or Germany. I think the wrapper was printed entirely in German. I've searched soaps from Austria, Germany, Salzburg, Vienna, Bad Gastein, Bad Hofgastein, soaps generically from Europe. I've scanned the websites of soap distributors all over Europe.

Beyond having no way to know if this soap still exists, I cannot know what type of ownership, name, formula, color, or labelling changes likely occurred over the past 26 years. Drat! I'm a marketer. And, one thing I know more than anything: it's very difficult to get people to stick to what works. New people come onto brands and products and want to embed their fingerprints on stuff that doesn't need to be changed, just for the sake of proving their mettle and fitness for the next level. The hardest thing to do when new to that type of position is to leave well enough alone.

I can only imagine that the object of my search lives in the marketing equivalent of a secure, underground bunker location; where someone in their wisdom has messed with my fantasy. Holding it hostage from my life forever.

That doesn't stop me from wondering if it's hiding in such brands as Argana by Argan Kontor; Alepp Laurel Olive Oil soap from Pegasus Trade; or Body Bar soap by Natalya.

Probably not.

Remember when weatherpeople were never able to predict the weather? Well, I want to assure you that those days are over. The Weather Channel app on my phone directed me to a link that announced that at least 100 million Americans are living in the upcoming "snow stripe" that will develop from Denver across the plains to somewhere in Ohio, to coincide roughly with Groundhog Day.

It must be true, because Facebook friends began posting articles today about the weather forecasts for Monday and Tuesday in their section of the stripe as fact.

I'm not sure the words "fact" and "weather forecast" have ever been used correctly in a sentence. But, since I can't talk about politics or business on WPF (for your protection and for mine), which means I cannot possibly comment on Egypt in any way, I'm left to talk about the inane and the meaningless. The distractions from reality.

I'm just one person. I may not be one in a million. But, according to the Weather Channel, I'm one in 100 million who will have nothing to talk about next week but the weather.

That is, unless someone can tell me who stocks real pie plates?

I mean the kind that used to hold a Marie Callender's pie....

Not the paper or cardboard type used now; and, not the foil pans sold in a package of three at Christmas with a preformed graham cracker crust pressed inside....

The kind that can be used to broil something in the oven....round...not too deep and not too shallow.....

And, not too expensive.....I'm not going to pay $14.50 for a tin pan that I need in quantity, that will likely only see the oven when Mark wants a Hebrew National.....

And, not non-stick, but I'd take that so long as it's dishwasher-safe.....

Would a restaurant supply company be the best source?

An inquiring mind wants to know....

Hope Springs

2011-01-22T10:43:00.019-07:00

"Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday,
Got to work like a slave all day.
Here come Tuesday; oh, hard Tuesday;
I'm so tired; got no time to play.

"Here come Wednesday, I'm beat to my socks;
My gal calls, got to tell her that I'm out.
'Cause Thursday is a hard-working day,
And Friday I get my pay."

Fats Domino & Fabian, 1957

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

I've learned today that I've been living consecutive months of January since 2005 in complete oblivion and have missed six "Blue Mondays" already. If this past Monday (January 17) was not actually Blue Monday for 2011, and opposing viewpoints are correct that this upcoming Monday (January 24) will be Blue Monday for 2011, I'll see what I've been missing.

All I know about last Monday is that it was Martin Luther King Day, and all the banks, post offices, and government folks had the day off. Nothing "blue" about that, huh?!

Meredith went back to UCCS on Sunday afternoon after a month-long semester break; but, classes didn't start until Tuesday morning because of Martin Luther King Day. She seemed pretty happy about that.

I didn't have the day off because the day is not observed as a holiday in our company; and, I hadn't planned to take the day off on a day when I had so much catching-up to do from the big trek to The Ville anyway. But, I was just so happy to be back in the land of snow plows and mag chloride, I would have missed the point.

So, now I'm wondering if the rest of you were busy being Blue while I was busy being Busy. And, Oblivious.

Blue is my favorite color. I'm not amused that everybody wants to hijack the most beautiful color in God's palette for their own PR purposes.

Yep, that's right. This "Blue Monday" thing apparently got its start when Porter Novelli (a public relations firm with which I have actually worked in another industry) got an idea to create a campaign around a trumped-up depressing day, and concocted a press release that was signed by hoodwinked (and compensated) "scholars" declaring that, roughly, the third Monday of January is officially Blue Monday. At some point after the lead academician had exhausted the news value of Blue Monday, he subsequently solved for the "happiest" day of the year on behalf of an ice cream company. You'll be shocked to learn that this celebration occurs at a point after the Northern Hemisphere tilts back in the general direction of the sun. In other words, June.

I don't know - I'm just telling you what I read on Wikipedia.

My favorite part of the story is the formula by which Blue Monday is calculated. It's roughly the product of (W + D - d) x T to the Q divided by M x N (with a little sub "a"). W is the Weather. D is not defined; d is Debt. T is Time since Christmas, and Q is time since failing our New Years resolutions. M is low motivational levels, and N with the little sub "a" is the feeling of a need to take action.

All of that leads to either January 17 or January 24 in 2011. If it was January 17, I failed to kvetch sufficiently and feel that my opportunity to mourn my condition has been unfairly withheld from me by lack of sufficient news coverage of this landmark date. Yes, journalism is truly dead.

If it's January 24, then I only have the weekend remaining to prepare for this day of gloom.

I see by the Weather Channel app on my personal Blackberry that Monday, January 24, 2011 is scheduled to be one of the 300 days of sunshine we are promised each year by the Denver Chamber of Commerce. If you've ever been to Denver on one of these days, you know that it is absolutely impossible -- I mean, ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE -- to be depressed. The blazing glare of that fireball in the sky known as the Sun fairly sears your retina into believing that God's palette is bathed in a rose-colored layer of happiness. And, barring a genuine tragedy in your life, you have no shot at attaining the appropriate level of unhappiness that I suspect is required to truly leverage the potential of Blue Monday.

Nope. I think Monday, January 24, 2011 is already booked for "Blue Heaven."

South of O'Dark:30

2011-01-15T17:09:00.017-07:00

"Airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror."

Al Boliska, 1960's radio personality

Eh bien, that was an interesting week.

I wasn't traveling for business back when WPF was born. Business travel had already long-reached the intolerable stage anyway. So, I didn't intend to write about my trip to the Mother Ship. Or any other 2011 event -- the inevitable travel required by a territory assignment now spanning 16 markets.

But, the trip marked for the week of January 10 is just too irresistible to ignore. I promise that anything I report here will be the truth; the whole truth; and, naturally, nothing but the truth. That means that I won't be able to report on much of anything actually related to the company, the business, my leadership, my colleagues, my corporate counterparts, and the cuisine of Louisville, Kentucky. To do so would certainly hasten my demise; which fate may have been sufficiently determined prior to this post.

No real names may be used. Some of those real names may be listening via one or more social media channels. No real names can be changed, even to protect the innocent or blameless. Analogies, euphemisms, and aliases would be wholly transparent...as a finite number of characters contributed to this epic tale.

I will note one matter of absurdity that is openly acknowledged by all involved at all levels; hence, a safe haven for ridicule. I will permit you to draw your own conclusion(s) as you ponder the title of this event, scheduled in early November for the dead of winter in a minor metropolitan area not equipped with snow removal equipment and any quantity at all of cutting-edge ice and snow melting chemicals. Sand and some salt slung from the back of a dump truck by a dude with a garden shovel? Check.

Yes, set your brain cells for "Stun," and absorb the full flavor of a meeting entitled "Getting Things Done Summit."

That's all I can say.

Well, I will add one more fact: an eight-hour tutorial of "Getting Things Done" requires four full days of "Out of the Office." OK, another key fact: it also requires a facilitator who appears to be the first truly indispensable person on the planet. She must be viewed as such, since she attempted to leave Charlotte, NC by jet for two consecutive days. That Charlotte didn't have sufficient deicer to move all the jets that wanted to get out meant that 24 people in Louisville would not get anything done for four days related to their direct responsibilities. They would also not complete the required "Getting Things Done" seminar, including the one-on-one counseling module. Naturally, I was especially looking forward to that 1:1 tutorial. Mmmm, mmm, mmm.

Let's focus on the obvious.

It's made even more obvious by the fact that I already made it my Facebook status on Tuesday. Some of y'all (that's Louisville for "you all") read that observation and thought I was being sarcastic. Did y'all know that Louisville is considered "The South?"

To wit, all the snow contained inside the dimension of our driveway in Highlands Ranch, Colorado on Monday morning was more snow than fell across Louisville metro for the entire week of January 10. I'm absolutely certain of it. Even if you subtracted the amount of snow removed Monday morning so that my driver could safely throw me and two bags into the back of an Escalade and trudge to DIA, you'd have more.

But, the schools across Kentucky seemed to be closed for at least two days. Indeed, much of the downtown area appeared to be shut down Tuesday and Wednesday. I didn't even wear a coat on Tuesday. I felt more like a stranger in a strange land than I could have possibly imagined.

Since I can't really write about anything, I'll divert to this admission: I am not gobsmacked by much at an airport. I've seen some truly stupid stuff. I've felt threatened by fellow travelers and TSA agents alike. I've been on old, rickety aircraft and brand-new (maiden-voyage "new") equipment. The flight attendants on long-bankrupted airlines aren't as cute as they used to be - in that "real people" kind of way. We seem to have more boys than girls now; the girls wear pants, and the boys wear pants. Depending on the flight, I am sometimes hard-pressed to tell them apart.

It's Monday, 1/10. I'm in DIA Concourse A, Gate 29. Waiting for the flight to Louisville, KY set for 11:24 a.m. Mountain.

No place to sit. Gate 29 is the absolute end of this long concourse which, thankfully, is not as long as the marathon known as "Concourse B." I'm in a chair next to a guy who smells like a hot dog. Raw onions and mustard, no waiting. He can't get comfortable in his seat, so he jumps up and plunks back down about every 30 seconds, juggling his late model Mac in one hand and his bladder-busting "Big Gulp" from the Conoco just inside DIA property in the other hand. I'm looking for a new seat when I hear the Gate 29 announcement: "Ladies & gentlemen on Flight 123 to Louisville, I regret to inform you that the facilities on board this aircraft are not working. Please use the facilities in the terminal prior to boarding. We apologize for this inconvenience."

This announcement is quickly followed by the first boarding announcement. I stand, look back to catch the terrified look on Hot Dog Man's face about the "facilities," and move to the front of the pack. That place where insufferable frequent flyers congregate to commiserate about the latest traveling horror. Well, none of us had encountered this level of a horror - no bathroom privileges on a flight set to take almost three hours. You know, a flight where they expect all of us to (simultaneously) drink drinks, eat snacks, and polish off the microwaved chocolate chip cookies with a big swig of water.

I've never seen a sadder group of folks trudge onto an airline. Since I take all the steps required to get an aisle seat as far forward as possible, I both see and feel long lines of folks from almost every demographic group in the country. The guy slated for the window seat happily appears, holding a Mountain Dew bottle of the size just beneath the two-liter.

I ruin his day with the question: did you hear the announcement in the terminal?

No, he didn't. Not only is he half-way through his Mountain Dew, he erupts with too much personal information regarding how he has unwittingly guzzled six iced teas in the restaurant with a colleague. He thinks he isn't likely to make it until we're airborne and at the altitude required to unbuckle a seat belt.

I smile. Uncharacteristically, I have not swallowed a drop of liquid in the prior three hours, at the risk of dehydration. Now, I will pass the supreme test of sitting politely in my seat with the extra legroom, all the way to Louisville and into the terminal restroom there.

But, God is merciful. Although a computer glitch had figuratively shut down the hopes and dreams of men, women, and children (did I forget to note that many, many children tend to be aboard planes on Mondays at midday?), what is called "The Miracle at 16,000 Feet" unfolds before our very eyes and bladders. Prayers are answered.

Green lights for miles - forward and aft.

And, that was just the first day...

Cheesecake Hill, 80126

2011-01-08T10:59:00.018-07:00

"Piper Jaffray is adjusting its rating on shares of the Cheesecake Factory (NASDAQ: CAKE) to Neutral. It credits the company with being one of the industry's best-in-class operators and believes the company is in a much stronger position going into 2011.

"With no debt, a new revolver, and 6-9 new units expected for FY11, Piper is incrementally encouraged by the company's improved position. That said, it believes the bias towards the limited service and fine dining segments and their favorable strategic/demographic exposure vs. casual dining ultimately wins out....

"Piper raises CAKE's PT from $25 to $30."

It didn't hit me until about an hour ago. I'm supposed to write something today. Although I don't have time to write a daily post, my brain has almost frothed with potential subject matter this week. I know - major excitement, huh?!

I've nearly created all manner of fantastic, potential topics for today. Emphasis on the word "nearly." As expected, the week went its way through a treacherous to-do list and prep for a week of travel to company headquarters next week. Louisville, Kentucky - 40202. The Pink Palace. The Tower.

I always used to work at someone's headquarters. "Corporate." Since we moved to Colorado in 2002, I've been in "The Field." When "The Field" goes to "Corporate" in this instance, the preparatory instructions duly note that the dress code is different "there." We're advised that some of us may work in "Business Casual" environments. You know who you are. (Well, do you? I submit that some folks might not know.) You're coming to a Fortune 73 company, so you'd better act like it. I mean, dress like it. Dress in "Business Formal."

What in the world is "Business Formal?" My two-day orientation at "Corporate" at the beginning of my tenure in 2009 was filled with images of women in too-long skirts. Some of them teetered on heels so high, I could not even create a space between my thumb and forefinger to measure the distance. One of them hobbled to the ladies' room for a Noon teeth brushing appointment, and I thought she would soon be headed to the ER for a broken ankle instead.

What's formal about that?!

So, this matter is of some concern. Modest concern; but, concern, nonetheless. I won't be taking any seven-inch heels with me. You can all exhale now.

Of course, I have no intention of revealing my Business Formal packing list. Let's just say that it's heavy on black, leather, and metal objects. Sounds more like Business Torture, doesn't it?! (Yuck, yuck.) I promise, I'm leaving my whip at home.

No, the real topic for today's musing has nothing to do with clothing choices and everything to do with the health care industry. It necessarily flies directly in the face of recent government hand-wringing about dessert and the role dessert -- dare I add - chocolate dessert -- plays in our obesity epidemic and rising healthcare costs.

I could be in serious trouble for revealing to you that the best thing I made in 2010 was.................Triple Chocolate Cheesecake.

This confession likely marks the beginning of another potential tradition - you are probably already setting your watch and noting on your 2012 calendars that you can expect a post about "The Best Thing I Made in 2011" on the second Saturday of next year. Quite right. I could begin to schedule certain topics now, given my penchant for forward planning. It would eliminate all that messiness about searching for a subject, trying to be witty about it extemporaneously (I could be funny upfront), and set everyone's teeth on fire in anticipation.

I didn't start out to make this dessert for Thanksgiving - it was foisted upon me by a daughter who decided in 2010 (or sometime earlier when I wasn't paying attention) that she now likes cheesecake. From the Cheesecake Factory. Six or seven dollars a slice, I think. Sometimes, I open the refrigerator for morning orange juice and find about $3.72 worth in a doggy box. Before I jolt to reality, I sometimes ask myself if I'm supposed to eat it. No, it wasn't put there for me.

But, when queried about the dessert wish list (not with the intent to buck tradition, but to entertain new possibilities), I was not prepared for chocolate cheesecake.

Not because I don't know how to make it. I've made it with all manner of chocolate - bittersweet, semisweet, milk, "dark," (this label has created undue confusion in the world of cocoa bean labeling), "white" (all of you already know, there is no such thing as "white" chocolate, right?), and Godiva chocolate liqueur, etc., etc.

Along with pie crust and yeast bread, I had more than conquered cheesecake at sea level a couple of decades ago. Living at about 6200 feet above sea level now creates new horrors of baking that have yet to be chronicled on WFP, simply because I'm not sure the audience needs to hear about failure. I'm all about success.

So, although the internet likely harbors a trillion chocolate cheesecake recipes, I went to an old-fashioned paper file folder stuffed with recipes that have been triaged from magazines (yes, the kind you hold in your hands) over the years; but, not yet used.

Enter "Chocolate Bliss Cheesecake." Kraft Foods will be delighted to know that I still have this recipe, published in a full-page ad from a 2001 issue of Martha Stewart Living. You know this thing is old when you flip over the page and see an entry in a program guide for a Martha series that hasn't been on the air since, well, just after 2001. An entry entitled "Cooking with Rocco Dispirito" further ages the ad. And, frankly, probably should have rendered it useless. :) (I confess that I count one of his cookbooks among my collection. Mostly for the pictures :)

But, baking at altitude requires more than an adjustment of ingredients, ratios, baking times, baking equipment...truthfully, it's a long list. It demands a different way of thinking and a managing of expectations the likes of which I never thought I could absorb.

I now look for fewer ingredients. Fewer things to go wrong or be out of proportion.

I look for a smaller yield. Less cheesecake to throw down the garbage disposal, in the event of an aborted landing.

I look for less investment of time. Less time wasted on something headed for the garbage disposal equals more time for tasks that are not altitude-sensitive. Like laundry.

Yes, this recipe yields a nine-inch cheesecake, which seems like a lot. But, if you only make it when you have people around you to help eat it, you'll see it cuts down to size nicely.

Cheesecake also freezes well. We still have five slices of this one downstairs today. It won't stay there much longer, but we did have seven slices the day before Christmas. You get the idea...

One dastardly dilemma with cheesecake at altitude remains.

Crack. And, I do mean CRACK. (Not the drug. Duh!)

At sea level, we all demurely and slowly removed our cheesecake from the low-heat oven, resting it firmly on the countertop. We then used the thin, straight knife already waiting to take a twirl or two around the rim. This nifty technique dislodged the cake from the side of the springform pan before the thing even had time to realize it was out of the oven.

Nothing doing at altitude.

The very millisecond that cake comes out of the oven and hits the cooler air, along with the change in air pressure, it begins to tug and snatch itself with great velocity from the rim. It looks like the bottom of a dry desert bed before you've even traversed the 26 inches from the oven door to the counter.

Ah, you cheesecake bakers say. But, after it cools and you store it in the refrigerator for the requisite time, those cracks close up again. All is well.

I guess you don't understand what I'm trying to tell you. These cracks are deep, wide, and vast.

The only prescription is cosmetic surgery. Filler. I don't know, but I'm guessing that it's the culinary interpretation of collagen injections.

Otherwise known as Ganache.

I think the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services is coming up my driveway about now. But, yes, you're getting the recipe/technique for that, too.

I'm not sure how it happens. But a warm pool of ganache, carefully poured on the cooled cheesecake (before the whole thing goes into the refrigerator) closes the gashes and makes your Baker's One Bowl Recipe into a thing of presentation perfection. When sliced, no evidence or history of cracks is visible; even to those of us who are paying attention.

A thing of beauty. A tri-level, pure chocolate creation. Restaurant quality. Yes, even when compared to the one traded on NASDAQ.

The best thing I made in 2010.

Chocolate Bliss Cheesecake

Prep: 30 minutes plus refrigerating

Bake: 1 Hour

18 Oreo Chocolate Sandwich Cookies, finely crushed (1-1/2 cups)

2 Tbsp. butter, melted

3 pkg. (8 oz. each) Philadelphia Cream Cheese, softened

3/4 cup sugar

1 tsp. vanilla (2 tsp. at altitude - you know who you are)

3 eggs

1 pkg. (8 squares) Baker's Semi-Sweet Baking Chocolate, melted; cooled slightly

Heat oven to 325 F. Mix crushed cookies and butter; press onto bottom of 9-inch springform pan. Bake 10 minutes.

Mix cream cheese, sugar and vanilla with electric mixer on medium speed until well blended. Add eggs (one at a time at altitude), mixing on low speed just until blended. Blend in melted chocolate. Pour over crust.

Bake 55 to 60 minutes or until center is almost set. Run knife or metal spatula around rim of pan to loosen cake (HA! Do it at altitude anyway); cool before removing rim of pan.

Refrigerate four hours or overnight. Makes 12 servings.

Altitude Crack Repair Ganache

3/4 cup heavy whipping cream

6 oz. dark chocolate (bittersweet), chopped

1 Tbsp. sugar

Stir cream, 6 ounces chocolate and sugar in heavy medium saucepan over low heat until smooth. Cool slightly. Pour over center of cheesecake, spreading to within 1/2 inch of edge and filling any cracks (HA!). Chill until topping is set, about one hour. (Well, ignore the one hour. The whole thing is best when chilled overnight.)

Unknown Unknowns

2011-01-01T00:00:00.006-07:00

"Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved."

William Jennings Bryan, American lawyer and politician (1860-1925)

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane In proving foresight may be vain; The best laid schemes 'o mice an men, Gang aft a-gley ; An lea'e us nought but grief an' pain; For promised joy."

Robert Burns, poem "To a Mouse," 1786.

Welcome back to When Pigs Fly! Hiatus lasted longer than I expected, but I should have known that joining the health care industry in March, 2009 would be something of a distraction. Understatement. I thought it would be so cool to be part of the "debate" at that time; however, watching my company's name and industry endure daily vilification within the national press, above the fold, soon lost its intrigue. No aspects of the matter will be examined, reviewed, dissected or otherwise construed here. It's not the right place, I'm not the right person.

Besides, the original charter of WPF was to give CRD a place to write something besides a business plan, new product proposition, or research analysis. For the brain exercise. The same reason my father still does crossword puzzles every day.

I note that only two posts were entered since I began this adventure with Humana. It would seem I didn't have the time (true), didn't have the inclination (true), and didn't have anything to say (maybe).

Like everything in my life, I had to make a choice about where to spend my time and talent. To opt for the laundry on Saturday instead of the blog. To sleep during the week after closing the laptop regularly at midnight instead of rising to fire the brain cells. To recognize that the continual firing of said brain cells on the job was sufficient mind massaging for anyone, including me, and acknowledging that no one was really out there waiting for word from me.

But, with a quirky combination of bang and whimper, 2010 has ended. It jolted me back to the idea that I could do something more abbreviated. That I could have the cake and eat it, too. That a compromise - perhaps a lowering of my own expectations is too harsh - could permit me to peacefully commingle my life with a blog thingy.

2010 was a year I had long anticipated. The planned lifestage events on the calendar came and went: Shannon graduated from the University of Nebraska - Lincoln on May 8, and Meredith graduated from Mountain Vista High School on May 20.

The unplanned events require much more than a paragraph - everything from "surviving" the first restructuring at Humana in response to "health care reform" that ultimately quadrupled my geographical assignment; to watching my 83-year-old father enter the hospital as a patient for the first time in his life. And, fight for that life. Through the Grace and Mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, he lived to tell that tale. And, not surprisingly, everyone is listening.

We begin each year that way. We have some things to do. We already know about them: birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, new jobs, new school terms. Sometimes we anticipate the birth of new life to our families, friends, and co-workers. Stuff like that.

We prepare. We have certainty. Our daily life choices - and the attendant consequences - are somewhat ordered about the expectation that these things will happen. According to the calendar. According to the plan.

But, what about the unplanned? The unseen? The unforeseen?

If we're honest, we have more of that each year than anything. The "what was I thinking" moments. The "how could I have been so stupid" thunderclaps. The "why do I keep doing that" whiplash. The "I am such a ditz" self-loathing.

We don't see everything coming. I have long contended that God doesn't let us see the future. As a whole, it would scare us into apoplexy; rivet us into stupor; cement our decision-making to the floor.

We weren't made to carry that burden.

What we are made to do is live each day by faith, taking everything as it comes. One thing after the other. Day, after day, after day.

Maybe I yet have nothing well-formed to say. The first day of a new year can do that to you. The day can feel heavy, mixed with an odd concoction of anticipation and fear. Fear about what those unplanned, unseen things in 2011 will be and whether everyone we love will come out on the other side.

I'm beginning the first day of the new year in Pasadena, California again. The only difference over time is that we finally wised-up and watch it on HGTV, without commercial interruption. The television does it no justice whatsoever. Having seen it live for so many years, I am both exceedingly spoiled and a parade snob. This regularity - honoring this tradition - is one of the ways I cope with uncertainty. Even that day a few years ago when the rain poured down on Pasadena like Armageddon and washed all the poppy seeds off the USC float and destroyed the hair AND make-up of the Song Girls wasn't enough to cancel the thing.

So, I count on the XXth Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade to confirm that the calendar page turned again. Rain or shine. Mostly, shine. But, also rain. Buckets of rain, rivers of rain.

Oh, no. The Sierra Madre float broke down before the official parade starting line. Already being towed. I suppose all of you non-Californians are wondering how all those tow trucks just come out of nowhere when stuff breaks. Well, I'm not going to tell you. For the sake of the traditions, some things just should not be discussed....

But, that won't prevent me from making a few catty remarks. (Meow.)

We lived in Sierra Madre, but went to Arcadia High School. Seems like Arcadia has had a Princess on the Queen's float every year for three decades. I could be wrong. This year was no exception. Even with the programmed "diversity" of the court (sorry - that part is true), they still mostly look alike on parade day. Hair, make-up, crowns, matching dresses and creepy waves can do that. Sanitized and homogenized for our protection.

LOVED the teal dresses today. Probably my all-time favorite color. Probably because all us Dickersons look fabu in it. Something about that eastern European coloring of everyone except me; but, I have blue eyes, too - so, it works. LOVE teal. The perfect blend of God's two most perfect colors in nature - green and blue - an inspired hue.

But, these people standing on horses must go. I don't mean that in the "you go, girl" sense. I mean exit. Next left-hand turn off of Colorado Boulevard.

I mark the dates, mark the time. Honor the high days and holidays to the best of my ability. Never let my husband forget that he didn't have a stocking when we were first married by stringing an outrageous collection of them through the entire house. Remind my girls that the days they were born are only elipsed in my joy by the day I married their father.

Make the turkey stock at Thanksgiving. Plug in all the Christmas lights every night until New Years (and a few nights beyond, if necessary).

(Shout-out to Bruce Erley, colleague from Denver, and Up With People alum; who produced the parade opening segment today. Bruce, I want you to know that I actually set the alarm for 8:45 a.m. Mountain after too-little sleep, just to see Matt on top of the singer float. I owe you a phone call about the Denver Parade of Lights post-event analysis, Nielsen ratings, and demographic viewership results.)

Oops. No business stuff on When Pigs Fly.

Anyway, I don't know what I can do in weekly installments. But, I don't think I'm ready to commit to more than a weekly post, for whatever it might be worth to anyone. I'm not a paid professional, I'm not trying to change political opinions, and gifted Biblical scholars are already doing what I don't have a calling to do.

However, it seems that an often-overused verse would be in order here. On 1-1-11.

Naturally, Jeremith 29:11. "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Since I don't know, I'm grateful that He knows. I will continue to try to make the best possible daily choices so that I am fit for whatever He knows.

Almost Famous

2009-09-30T23:54:00.003-06:00

These things write themselves now....

Ides of Snow Day

2009-03-27T07:37:00.005-06:00

"It is getting dark and time he drew to a house,
But the blizzard blinds him to any house ahead.
The storm gets down his neck in any icy souse
That sucks his breath like a wicked cat in bed. "

Robert Frost (1874–1963), U.S. poet. “Willful Homing.”

There's something strange and wonderful about this 27th day of March.

It's strange, and I'm wonderful. (Yuck, yuck.)

After barely a flake of snow since Christmas and temperatures parked between 50 and 75 for weeks on end, the innocent Denverites had been lulled into giddy submission. No need to keep the freezer stocked with just-in-case-we're-snowed-in food. No need to count the potatoes, time the milk deliveries, or tune the snow blower. We were going to slide right into Easter without Winter.

Our household should have known better. Nothing brings on a good blizzard faster than Spring Break on the calendar. Shannon was home for it last week. No snow. That could mean only one thing.

We would have snow this week. Major league snow. Meredith is on Spring Break. And, it just wouldn't be like the previous six Spring Breaks in Highlands Ranch without the sight of deciduous trees in full flower, bowed by heavy, wet snow. That seemed to circulate repeatedly from the sky like a lake effect, without the lake.

I should be in the car, traveling to my new employer in the Denver Tech Center. But, we were sent home midday yesterday. The day started innocently enough. The signs and warnings were firing from every cylinder. But, I was in denial. Until an office President born and raised in Minnesota declared at 10 a.m. that he was going to close the office. That sounded serious. I thought he was joking.

It was. Serious. Not a joke. We forged ahead with our previously scheduled meeting. Within the space of the last half hour, the street conditions went from plausible to barely discernible. We could see it out the panels of glass in his 14th floor office. Still, I thought I would zip over to the grocery store, pick up a half dozen essentials, run back to the car, and speed to the house before conditions progressed to life-threatening.

Wrong again. Just the walk from the front door of our office tower to my car in the open parking lot -- couldn't have been more than 25 yards -- was a real-life comedy. I was coated in snow from head to toe while the inside of the car attained it's own fresh-powder dusting in the span of opening and closing the door.

Sideways snow. Horizontal, wind-whipped, cornflake-sized pieces of danger flew around with no strategic plan.

Ninety minutes, 1/8 of a tank of gas, and the view of three pile-up incidents later, I turned the final right from the neighborhood entrance for the house after the 12-mile journey. I knew what came next would present the greatest challenge of all.

Getting into the garage without hitting the dog.

I hit the button early. Right on cue, the door rolled up. She sprung from her house in the garage to see who was coming home. Meredith had brought her inside. Rightfully so.

In my little car, I must make the turn into and up the driveway in one, uninterrupted motion if I expect to land inside the garage. When there is already about a foot of snow on the driveway. I need for the dog to decide if she's going to venture out for a bathroom break or run back in horror to her house when she reaches the lip of the snow bank. I need for her to be clear of purpose, single-minded in her focus, and cognizant of the consequences should she elect to stand frozen in awe of the white wonder before her.

Nothing doing.

At the critical go/no-go moment in my trajectory, she decided not to decide. She was right in my line of sight when she finally decided that it was too cold, too wet, too snowy, and just too downright weird to do anything but stand right in my path with a look of "aren't you supposed to be at work" on her sweet doggy face.

I slammed on the brakes. That's when I know that one of only two things will happen next.

I'm going to slide down the hill into the street and take as many runs up the driveway as I need to get that car into it's side of the garage. Or, I'm going to leave the car in the driveway, parked at just the precise angle that no other car in the family will be able to get into the garage either. And, step into that foot of snow without boots, trudge through it with my three black bags in hand, leave all the wet clothes in the laundry room for another day. All while giving the dog that is already back in the doghouse a stern lecture about how she is really in the doghouse This Time.

It took seven runs up the hill. I was in the garage. I was in at the precise angle necessary to give the other car, behind me by mere minutes, the precise angle it needed for the driver to emerge without his door hitting my door.

All was right with the world. Sort of. The dog was in her house. Meredith was in her house. Mark was going to be in his house, God willing, in a few minutes.

On to the next question. Did we have internet?

Dueling laptops would be fired up, next to a fired-up fireplace.

Today, it's more of the same. The clock says I should be at the office by now.

I'm coming, I'm coming. The switchboard message said we're closed. But, we're not closed. We're just "working from home."

Easier commute this morning. Going to walk downstairs now and take my seat at the laptop table. With its 180 degree view of the Spring Blizzard of 2009.

Plain Vanilla

2009-03-12T08:51:00.006-06:00

"You are very sweet and mellow. You are easy going and easy to like. You are drawn to those stronger personalities. You get along with powerful people.

"You are like a cupcake because you appeal to almost every type of person. You are friendly and accepting. You bring out other people's best qualities. "

CRD Results from "What Flavor Cupcake are You?" test on blogthings.com

White with fair skin. Yep, that's me all right. But, plain vanilla?

I don't think so, girlfriend.

Do the test lie? Well, I don't know how much of a test it is. But, I recently latched onto http://www.blogthings.com/ just in case my upcoming work responsibilities keep me from waxing eloquent here on When Pigs Fly. I thought it would give folks something to do while I'm doing whatever I'm doing.

But, this cupcake thing has me a bit concerned. Here I thought I was chocolate to the core; and, now, I find out I'm probably the flavor that is left behind in the box after everyone fights over the chocolate cupcake with chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles.

I wouldn't have felt so bad if I had tested out as Red Velvet. Everybody's new favorite cupcake. New favorite friend. A bright red cake with a hint of light chocolate flavor and a cream cheese (cheesecake, anyone??) topper for good measure.

But, no. I'm vanilla. I'm thinking about retaking the test, but which answer would I change? Alas, I'm too honest -- too vanilla -- to cheat.

Not one to take this slight without a fight, I had to research the possible reasons why being vanilla could be something to which I might actually aspire. Let me count the ways.

1. Vanilla is derived from orchids.

YUM! I love orchids, especially white Phalaenopsis. Also known as butterfly orchids. I carried them at my wedding, my husband bought me a gorgeous print of them crafted on sculpted paper for an anniversary gift one year, I used to always have one in the bathroom in California, I've killed two of them since moving to Denver, and I broke my personal rule about no fake flowers when I finally relented on a silk version that won't mind the dry Colorado climate.

OK, so the butterfly orchid is NOT the source of vanilla. I can dream, can't I?!?

2. Vanilla is the second-most expensive spice after saffron.

Vanilla is labor-intensive. Is that the same as high-maintenance? I don't know, but I like being rare and expensive.

3. The flavor is "pure, spicy, and delicate" with a complex "floral aroma."

That doesn't sound common to me. OK, I'm good with "complex."

4. Old medical literature stated that vanilla was an aphrodisiac. No comment. When Pigs Fly is rated "G" for General audiences.

5. That same old literature said that vanilla was also a remedy for fevers.

Well, that can't be right. Everybody knows that the only prescription for fever is More Cowbell.

Mint Condition

2009-03-07T12:18:00.014-07:00

" Subtraction? Oh, yes, ma'am, I can explain it. Subtraction is the awful feeling that you know less today than you did yesterday."

Patricia "Peppermint Patty" Reichart, November 13, 1978

I know, I know. I already did a note about a mint cupcake. It had a big swirl of creme de menthe Italian Meringue buttercream and an Andes mint on the top of a rich, complex chocolate cake.

This one is different. This one is more accessible. The only difference between this one and a plain, old chocolate cupcake with vanilla buttercream frosting is a tablespoon of peppermint extract and a bag of York Peppermint Patties.

This cupcake is more of a recession cupcake. Although, at 14o calories per peppermint patty, the addition of the York significantly ratchets up the total calorie consumption to a genuinely indulgent level.

We shall not care. We shall eat cake. And, we shall like it.

I don't have a recipe for you. But, you can tell by the picture that you don't need one. Unwrap half the number of peppermint patties as you expect to have cupcakes. Cut them in half. Put one half in the bottom of each cupcake cup. Cover the mint with your chocolate cupcake batter and bake.

When you are ready to top your cupcakes, make your regular vanilla buttercream frosting and add a tablespoon of real peppermint extract. Less if you don't want that frosty, Rocky Mountain crisp air afterbite. But enough to know that you put some in. After you top the chocolate cupcakes with the peppermint frosting, unwrap half the number of peppermint patties as you have cupcakes. Again. Cut them in half. Top each frosted cupcake with one half of a peppermint patty.

Eat. Inhale. Relax. Repeat.

Thin Air

2009-03-06T07:21:00.004-07:00

"Trust is not a matter of technique, but of character. We are trusted because of our way of being, not because of our polished exteriors or our expertly crafted communications."

Marsha Sinetar, educator and author

In about eight hours, it would have been an entire week since I began holding my breath. Not that I had a good reason to do so, but I did it anyway. In the spirit of "it's-not-over-til-it's-over."

At 3 p.m. Mountain Time last Friday, I finished a phone call in the "C" terminal of Denver International Airport with the internal recruiter of the company I'm going to work for beginning March 15. He had expected to reach me before I got on the plane in Salt Lake City, but got my voicemail instead. I was already in the air. Trying not to worry about whether I would get a phone call on Friday or wait through the weekend to learn the results.

Because the company is so very large and conducts a business that involves the government sometimes, a chain-of-custody drug test is required.

That's not why I was holding my breath. The strongest pill I took this week was an Advil. In that way, this week was like any other.

But, the other requirement to confirm employment is a background check. Not a phone-your-reference-list background check. A systematic confirmation of everything I submitted in an electronic application form. And, maybe, stuff I didn't submit. By the largest database organization in the world. The kind that not only knows your mother's mother's maiden name, but also how much cash she kept in the cookie jar.

Not that I should have been holding my breath about that either. I didn't lie about anything on the application, and the truth I told didn't contain anything that would disqualify me.

But, just the idea that two hurdles must be crossed before I could officially consider myself an employee caused me to deeply inhale. And, hold it until 7 a.m. today, when I got a phone call that casually revealed that the background check was "confirmed."

That whooshing sound. That's me exhaling. I am officially employed.

Well, pending the drug test results.

Like I said, I am officially employed.

Finding My Inner Piglet

2009-02-28T07:46:00.007-07:00

"When the ashes clear from this economic Armageddon, the leaders and organizations left standing will be the ones that stand for something. That have a clear purpose.

I’m sure of this because I worked with two CEO-founders who indeed stood for something: Herb Kelleher of Southwest Airlines (LUV) and Sam Walton of Wal-Mart (WMT). I worked with these iconic entrepreneurs on their companies’ advertising, marketing and internal culture. They taught me that performance is driven by the core purpose of an organization. This is true particularly when crisis is all around.

So what is purpose anyway? Purpose is the definitive difference you make in the marketplace and the world."

Roy Spence, Fortune, 2/18/09

I got what I wanted this week. I was offered the opportunity to join something really big. A big company. A big subject. A big group of amazing, professional, values-driven people. At a very big time in history.

I've never felt smaller.

For me, feeling small is a new sensation. My height has never earned me the "small" label. I can't think back far enough on my own to remember a time when I would have truly qualified as small. I was always kind of like a pony growing up. Mostly legs. A token bit of torso. Fortunately, a high-energy brain was attached to the end of all of it. And, a beating heart.

The brain is what earned me the opportunity to even be in the discussion about being big. But, that heart and the heart that is my heart got me the job.

I've learned about heart from my oldest daughter, now seven weeks from her 22nd birthday. 2009 will represent the first year since she was six years old that she will not be listed on somebody's soccer roster. Despite all of her best efforts, expectations, hard work, endless rehab, and long-term potential, career-ending injury overtook her last Fall. For the good of her overall well-being and the fruitful life that we hope lies ahead for her, she made the decision with her remarkable head coach and her equally-remarkable and compassionate surgeon that she must hang up the cleats. Not for the wearing of them as a coach or mentor, but as a competitive player. Something she's been for so long, she can't remember on her own when she wasn't that way.

She was like a pony growing up, too. The scenes of her galloping up and down the soccer field at an early age and scoring goals in bunches got her effectively booted out of the recreational league. We endured the glares of angry moms who thought the egalitarian AYSO games were about sharing the ball. Less about winning.

Turns out she was all about winning. All the time. She hated to lose more than she loved to win. Winning came easy. Winning was expected and became the norm. But, real life-learning came from both winning and losing.

Losing the ability to continue to compete on the field caused her to completely reevaluate what she wanted to do with her life off the field. And, she went after the subject with the same ferocity that vaulted her to national recognition in her sport by the age of 13.

Sometimes we spend so much time mourning what we have lost, we can't see what we might have gained in the process. I know that I have struggled with this challenge in recent months.

The only thing I can say with a certainty is that nothing on earth lasts. It's all fleeting. The good times never last. And, fortunately, the bad times generally don't last forever either. At least, not in their most dire, bottom-of-the-pit bad times form. You eventually come out of whatever you're in.

If you're paying attention, you know that you don't come out of the pit the same way you went into it.

As I plopped into the center seat closest to the front of the Southwest flight back to Denver from Salt Lake City yesterday, I thought that the resolution I had wanted for Friday, February 27, 2009 would not be forthcoming. I tried to make myself smaller in the seat so that the people who had fought for -- and won -- the right to the aisle and window seats wouldn't feel so cheated.

While my cell phone slept in the air, I was unaware that bigger and higher things than me were working on my behalf. Rapidly. Working an entire array of other phones. Lining up the pieces.

Making a big thing happen. Making it happen for little, 'ol me.

Time to Fly

2009-02-23T06:59:00.004-07:00

"A silent pig digs the deepest root."

Lithuanian proverb

I don't know what that means. Seriously. I was just looking for something that had the word "silent" and the word "pig" in it. And, that's what I found.

When Pigs Fly went silent last week. About a quarter to the middle of last week. Somewhere between "Trojan Pig" and a phone call that will, hopefully, change my life.

Twas not for lack of porky subjects. I just wasn't in the mood to tell a story. I'm not in a mood to tell a story today either. But, I wanted to sign on today, just to sign off for the week. I have some things to do that don't require my undivided attention. But, I think I will pretend that undivided attention will effect a positive outcome.

I don't usually struggle with multitasking. But, I'm not going to take the chance that a whirling dervish is just as good as a stoic, with laser-focused attention to detail. Not this week. I'm looking to dig a deep root.

See you next week.

Trojan Pig in Our Town

2009-02-18T08:51:00.006-07:00

“I always listen to the speech of Obama in the commercial that he will help pay the rent of (our) house.”

Third-grade boy somewhere in Colorado.

Denver was once considered a "cowtown."

You know a cowtown when you see one. First, it's a "town," not a city. A "town," of course, is any urban area with a fixed boundary. No spilling out into an unending array of little towns, one after the other, connected by a north-south Interstate highway.

Yes, there was a time when one left the Denver city limits and didn't encounter anything but a few, scattered country dwellers until one reached the city limits of Colorado Springs.

The "cow" part is even better understood. If your town is located in one of the cattle-raising sections of North America, you might be a Cowtown.

Across the street from our neighborhood, the last remaining land available in Highlands Ranch for new home construction used to be an open field for cattle grazing. The cows -- black, brown, black-and-white -- would come right up to the barbed wire fence to graze. Wildcat Reserve Parkway was a two-lane avenue destined for four-lane greatness. We knew when we moved here that this bucolic view would disappear in part once the graders started preparing Back Country for its 16-section community development.

With time, the cow appearances were fewer. And, farther between. Once the roads went in and framing began on the community entrance, we didn't see the cows for a long time.

But, curiously, at the far east end of the enormous parcel, a small sliver of private land must still be operating. One day last week, coming over Wildcat Reserve at the summit, by Mountain Vista High School, I was unavoidably distracted by the appearance of cows. Right by the fragile-looking fence. Right by the road.

That this sight used to be commonplace and isn't anymore was as much the distracting thought as the sight of the cows.

Yesterday, a new animal made an appearance in our fair City. Yes, it's a City. It's a metropolitan area of no fewer than 2.5 million people. Not big by Big City standards. But, pretty dang big for a former Cowtown. And, the Capital of the Great State of Colorado.

Yesterday, a dude named Nathan the Pig was one of two guests of honor at the big "You Don't Know Stimulus" anti-pork rally on the Capital steps. He must have been relieved to learn that he wasn't serving as the other guest of honor. That would be, of course, a whole, completely slow-roasted pig that was asked to lunch. To BE lunch.

Meanwhile, the Porkulus Bill was being signed within the City limits. It took two 747s, a motorcade with about 150 police escorts, and a long string of speeches to get to that point. But, get to that point we ultimately did.

One of the pre-President speakers was the CEO of a Boulder-based solar company. He made it sound like his fledgling business had no chance of survival without the Porkulus Stimulus. But, his company website forgot to take down the long list of government subsidy already in place.

You might not be interested to read all of it. But, if you really want to get a tingle up your leg, read the very last section. The one about company benefits.

I've worked in business all my life, which is about 2,486 years in dog years. I've never had more than three weeks of paid vacation in a year. In my life.

Obviously, I've been in the wrong bizness. But, if this company represents that it could hardly stay afloat with all of this existing help, why would anyone shovel more money in its direction?

Why, indeed.

Hope it's not another ethanol boondoggle in the making.....

"Blake Jones, CEO of Boulder-based Namaste Solar, said his company’s future is already looking brighter with the signing of the bill. Jones, who led Obama and Vice President Joe Biden on a tour of solar panels his company installed on the museum’s roof, said he had been considering laying off some of his 55 employees. Now, he’s looking to expand his work force by 40 percent by 2010, he said.

“We’re just one small business, creating one to two dozen jobs,” Jones said. “The point that I want to stress is that there are thousands of businesses just like ours that will be doing the same thing.”
From the company website:
OVERVIEW:

On both National and State levels, there are programs in place to help “level the economic playing field” between green, renewable energy sources (like solar electricity) and polluting, finite energy sources (such as fossil fuels and nuclear energy). The latter already receive billions of dollars annually in subsidies and incentives, so we’re extremely pleased that renewable energy technologies are now receiving government assistance as well.

GEO solar rebates now available for customers in Fort Collins, Longmont, United Power, Poudre Valley, Estes Park and other territories! Click here for more information.

Residential Systems (smaller than 10.0kW):

* 40-50% utility rebate ($3.50 per DC watt) for Xcel customers
* 30-40% utility rebate ($3.00 per DC watt) for Fort Collins, Longmont, United Power, Poudre Valley and Estes Park customers
* 30% federal income tax credit
* 15% rebate of City sales and use tax for projects within Boulder City limits

SUMMARY OF INCENTIVES IN COLORADO:

Residential Systems (smaller than 10.0kW):

* 40-50% utility rebate ($3.50 per DC watt) for Xcel customers
* 30% federal income tax credit
* 15% rebate of City sales and use tax for projects within Boulder City limits

Small Commercial Systems (smaller than 10.0kW):

* 40-50% utility rebate ($3.50 per DC watt) for Xcel customers
* 30% federal income tax credit
* 5-year MACRS accelerated depreciation schedule
* 15% rebate of City sales and use tax for projects within Boulder City limits

Large Commercial Systems (larger than 10.0kW):

* 25-30% utility rebate ($2.00 per DC watt) for Xcel customers
* 20-year utility payments for system’s “REC” production for Xcel customers
* 30% federal income tax credit
* 5-year MACRS accelerated depreciation schedule
* 15% rebate of City sales and use tax for projects within Boulder City limits

The Bottom Line
In practical terms, state and federal incentive programs can reduce your total “out-of-pocket” costs for a solar electric (PV) system by as much as 60-70%!!!

…THE EMERGENCY ECONOMIC STABILIZATION ACT OF 2008:

On October 3, 2008, President Bush signed the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008 into law. The new energy bill extends extends the 30-percent federal investment tax credit for both residential and commercial solar installations for 8 years (2009-2016). The legislation improves upon the previous investment tax credits by removing the $2,000 cap for residential solar PV systems and allowing Alternative Minimum Tax (AMT) filers to take the tax credits.

…COLORADO’S AMENDMENT 37 AND HOUSE BILL 1281:

In November of 2004, Colorado voters passed Amendment 37 (A37), mandating that a certain percentage of Colorado’s electricity come from renewable sources such as wind and solar power. The rules were finalized and Xcel began paying out rebates in the Spring of 2006. House Bill 1281 (HB1281) was signed into law by Governor Bill Ritter in early 2007 and effectively doubles the original goals of A37 to 20% by 2020. The incentive is divided into a $2.00 per watt rebate and a $1.50 per watt Renewable Energy Credit payment (REC). Because a typical flush-mount roof array costs about $8 to $9 a watt, the combination of rebate and REC from Xcel, along with the federal tax credit, means that your final out-of-pocket cost can be reduced by about 40% to 50%. This assumes that your system can be installed such that it produces at least 90% of what an optimally positioned array in a shade-free area would produce. If your installed system is predicted to produce less than 90% of optimum, then the REC portion of the Xcel incentive (which is production-based) is reduced accordingly.

…CITY OF BOULDER REBATES & INCENTIVES:

Solar energy systems installed within Boulder city limits are currently eligible for a tax rebate. Boulder City Council approved an ordinance in November 2006 to provide rebates for a portion of sales and use tax on both solar electric (photovoltaic) and solar thermal (hot water) systems. The ordinance was passed to encourage residents and businesses to install renewable energy systems in the city of Boulder. The end effect is a 15% rebate on the Boulder City sales and use taxes paid on a solar PV system.
"Environmental concerns would be a driving force in every aspect of the company.
• Six weeks of paid time off.
• Employees, no matter what their job description, have the same pay scale.
• One percent of yearly revenues goes to solar systems donated to community groups.
• All major decisions would be made by consensus of all company employees."

Every Valentine's Day is Post 9-11 Now

2009-02-14T08:59:00.006-07:00

"Beverly Eckert, of Stamford, Connecticut, a 9/11 widow, was identified as one of the passengers on the Continental commuter plane that crashed near Buffalo, N.Y., the Associated Press reports. Eckert was heading to Buffalo for a celebration of what would have been her husband’s 58th birthday, said Mary Fetchet, a 9/11 family activist.

She also had planned to take part in presentation of a scholarship award at Canisius High School that she established in honor of her late husband, the Buffalo News says.

Fetchet says she learned Eckert was aboard the plane from another close Eckert family friend. Officials investigating the crash have not yet confirmed Eckert was on board the plane.

Eckert was part of a small group of Sept. 11 widows, mothers, and children who became amateur lobbyists, ultimately forcing lawmakers in 2004 to pass sweeping reforms of the U.S. intelligence apparatus."

USA Today, 2/13/09

A "9-11 widow."

For years to come, people who lost loved ones in the 9-11 attacks will also die. Some of them will die tragically, like Beverly Eckert. Some of them will die in obscurity. But, all of them will have that parenthetical label. "9-11 survivor." "9-11 widow." "9-11 widower."

Every time these losses make the news, we will relive that day all over again.

It's very different than saying "former Heisman Trophy winner." Or, "former Presidential candidate." Or, "loving wife."

The intersection of "loving wife" with "9-11 widow" in the story of Beverly Eckert is almost too much to bear. Her recounting of the final minutes of her husband's life in the Tower, along with her witness by phone of his death as the Tower fell, is as heavy as any story we will ever read.

It's Valentine's Day, the day for love stories, fictional and true. This one is true.

Rest in Peace, Sean Rooney and Beverly Eckert.

Due Fratelli

2009-02-13T08:48:00.010-07:00

"Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."

Sophia Loren

FETTUCCINE WITH PRAWNS VENEZIANA $14.50

Sauteed jumbo prawns prepared with aromatic saffron, zucchini, sundried tomatoes, scallions, and cream; flamed with white wine and served over a bed of fresh spinach fettuccine (Veneto).

It's another one of those days, when I crave something I can't get in Denver. Maybe I CAN get it in Denver, but haven't found it yet. The last time this happened to me, we were in the middle of a big snowstorm. All I wanted was a few things from Tommaso's in San Francisco. It didn't happen then. And, it's not going to happen today either.

All I want to do is cruise down Contra Costa Boulevard in Pleasant Hill, California to Melo's for a plate of Fettuccine with Prawns.

Thanks to two guys from Italy (who, thankfully, restrained themselves from naming their California restaurants "Two Guys from Italy"), I am obsessed with this dish today. Carmelo and Gaetano don't miss me as much as I miss them. Actually, they don't miss me at all. Their large restaurant was always so crowded, there was no room to be recognized. They always greeted us like family. But, that's the way they greeted all their customers.

That picture at the top, that looks like Fettuccine with Prawns, probably isn't. I don't see the sticks of zucchini or the sun-dried tomatoes on that plate. It looks more like Tagliatini Fellini, "....Fresh lemon tagliatini pasta with aromatic sauteed jumbo prawns in a delicate shrimp rosa sauce with vodka (Rimini)." That's a good dish, too; just not as good as Fettuccine with Prawns.

The order was always so large, I could eat my fill for dinner and have enough left over for lunch the next day. I always thought about that to justify the price; which, by the way, isn't much higher than it was when we lived nearby, only as recently as 2002.

We had a lot of good times at Melo's and we contributed our share to their very active take-out business. We started eating there when the girls were really little. In those days, the restaurant was completely inadequate to the demand. The wait for a table was often too much to bear with small children. We ultimately got into the habit of take-out.

We weren't the only people who knew about Melo's. So, the inevitable expansion project began to double the size of the restaurant. They doubled the number of pizza ovens. It was like doubling the number of lanes on a freeway. The extra space didn't do much to shorten the wait times. It just encouraged more people to come to the restaurant to wait.

After the expansion, one of our fondest memories of the place involved the new bar by the newly-expanded kitchen where the pizza dough was prepped. Children were encouraged to sit there at the counter, where they would be awarded a small ball of pizza dough while their family waited for their meal. Or, the dough could be brought to the table for the really little children who needed to stay near their parents. Our girls never tired of playing with the dough, even as they grew. But, the advantage of sitting at the bar was that every child could ooh and aah as the large circles of dough were spun high into the air. And, never dropped on the floor. Fascinating.

I wonder if the food would taste the same now, without the presence of those little, but very long fingers to play with pizza dough while the tantalizing aroma and warmth from the big ovens made the wait unbearable.

I'm willing to find out. I just don't think it will be any time soon.

http://www.melospizzapasta.com/

Junk in Space

2009-02-12T07:05:00.009-07:00

"A commercial satellite owned by a U.S. company was destroyed in a collision with a defunct Russian military satellite in what NASA said was the first such accident in orbit, raising new concerns about the dangers of space debris."

Wall Street Journal, 2/12/09

Clean up, Aisle One!

Somewhere, somebody is paid real money to babysit the orbits of all kinds of stuff orbiting the Earth. Following the big bang between a U.S. communications satellite and an apparently defunct Russian Cosmos bird, it's not comforting to read where one of them started a sentence with "in retrospect...."

Now they tell us. They now think they should have seen this one coming. With stuff speeding in a circle at the rate of 17,500 miles per hour, I 'm not sure what would have been so obvious about these two particular satellites and their respective paths through the garbage.

Could it be some sort of harbinger? Of impending doom not heretofore contemplated? Who is responsible for picking up the trash in space? Is this group on the stimulus earmark list? Who pays for it? What day is "trash day" for the U.S. government??

(Chortle. The correct answer to the last question is "every day is trash day." Duh.)

I don't know if it's a metaphor for the economic climate, but in the weeks since Christmas, we've noticed erratic patterns of behavior coming from our Monday trash pick-up in Stonebury. These guys were in their orbit, without interruption for a long time. Even if we put out the trash on Sunday night, we could be certain it would sit at the curb until at least Noon the following day. Sometimes, it would sit there until 2 or 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

We were lulled into complacency. We weren't paying attention to the fact that these guys could change their routine any time they pleased, and we wouldn't have anything to say about it. That we could awake to find ourselves held hostage by the trash guys.

Sure enough, one very cold, snowy Monday morning in early January, they thought it would be fun to cruise the enclave at 8 a.m. Only those residents who left at the crack of dawn or preferred to have their barrels sit out all night in freezing weather and be coated in snow would therefore be served. The rest of us would just have to store our detritus for another week. And, they would speed through the neighborhood at warp speed, since only about every seventh or eighth house would have read the invisible memo.

Not to worry. Our neighborhood isn't known for wallflower homeowners. In fact, the collective rate of Type A behavior hasn't always been the best mix at any venue where more than one beer was served. I knew that I would not even need to pick up the phone. When I saw the truck driving by our house, I calmly walked to the garage, raised the third door, and rolled the cans out to the curb. They would be back. They would get the call from headquarters to take another twirl through Stonebury.

Sure enough, they were back in the neighborhood at their normal Noon time to take another tour around our circle. Through our space. All the cans that weren't at the curb at 8 a.m. had migrated at their usual pace, many of them completely oblivious to the fact that at least one, but more likely, multiple residents had raised their voices in united opposition to this show of arrogance by the "WM" Waste Management crew.

Since then, they appear on Monday across a newly-lax timeframe of somewhere between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. I got the message. I don't wait to get those cans to the curb now, under threat of having to keep anything I don't want anymore for one more day.

Trash day used to be one of my favorite days of the week. It still is, mostly. But, I've noticed that the guys on the truck have found new ways to express their displeasure about how the neighborhood brought them back into line.

They now throw lids and cans helter-skelter after they empty them, as if the cans themselves had anything to say about it. If trash doesn't fall into their truck while they're emptying the cans, they just leave it on the ground.

The last time this happened, I thought about all the people who would love to have their jobs right now. To have the security from knowing that trash is constant, never in short supply. To know that their jobs are completely safe. Because, no matter what other belt-tightening might occur in households around the community, HOA dues are non-negotiable, along with the trash pick-up part of the tab, along with the contract to WM.

Well, that last part might change. I recently learned that some effort is afoot in Highlands Ranch to permit homeowners to make changes to their existing trash service. I don't know if anything will really change, but it does seem that this particular group of guys should probably clean up their act. Turns out they might not be so indispensable after all.

Flying Pork Barrels

2009-02-11T07:17:00.006-07:00

"A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon it adds up to real money."

Everett Dirksen, Senator from Illinois (1896-1969)

http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/

"Where Dreams Become Heart Attacks"

$2 billion earmark for FutureGen near zero emissions powerplant in Mattoon, IL
$39 billion slush fund for “state fiscal stabilization” bailout
$5.5 billion for making federal buildings “green” (including $448 million for DHS HQ)
$200 million for workplace safety in USDA facilities
$275 million for flood prevention
$65 million for watershed rehabilitation
$200 million for public computer centers at community colleges and libraries
$650 million for the DTV transition coupon program
$307 million for constructing NIST office buildings
$1 billion for administrative costs and construction of NOAA office buildings
$100 million for constructing U.S. Marshalls office buildings
$300 million for constructing FBI office buildings
$800 million for constructing Federal Prison System buildings and facilities
$10 million to fight Mexican gunrunners
$1.3 billion for NASA (including $450 million for “science” at NASA)
$100 million to clean up sites used in early U.S. atomic energy program
$10 million for urban canals
$2 billion for manufacturing advanced batteries for hybrid cars
$1.5 billion for carbon capture projects under sec. 703 of P.L. 110-140 (though section only authorizes $1 billion for five years)
$300 million for hybrid and electric cars for federal employees
$198 million to design and furnish the DHS headquarters
$255 million for “priority procurements” at Coast Guard (polar ice breaker)
$500 million for State and local fire stations
$180 million for construction of Bureau of Land Management facilities
$500 million for wildland fire management
$110 million for construction for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service
$522 million for construction for the Bureau of Indian Affairs
$650 million for abandoned mine sites
$75 million for the Smithsonian Institution
$1.2 billion for summer jobs for youth
$412 million for CDC headquarters
$500 million earmark for NIH facilities in Bethesda, MD
$160 million for “volunteers” at the Corp. for National and Community Service
$750 earmark for the National Computer Center in MD
$224 million for International Boundary and Water Commission – U.S. and Mexico
$850 million for Amtrak
$100 million for lead paint hazard reduction

Old Dog. Old Trick.

2009-02-10T22:14:00.003-07:00

"Experience is a comb which nature gives to men when they are bald."

Chinese Proverb

I'm a very casual Westminster Dog Show viewer. Something like a fair weather friend to the contest. I don't get too excited until one or two category competitions just ahead of the Best in Show.

Last year, so much publicity surrounded the candidacy of "Uno," the American beagle, I had to get excited a day early. I yelled at the TV like an idiot every time that dog's mug filled the screen, as if that would somehow persuade the Best in Show judge -- just released from his sound-proof, hermetically-sealed hotel room. I almost cried when Uno won the cup. He was achingly cute. He was America's Dog.

This year? Not so much. I got into it about 90 minutes ahead of Best in Show. I figured, someone had already done a lot of work to narrow down the enormous field to seven top dogs in their respective classes. And, there was nothing to get hung up about.

Wrong.

The field was typically diverse, but contained some of the most astounding-looking dogs in a single collection I could recall. I didn't know anything about the dogs - their personal stories, their names; and, in some cases, I didn't even recognize their breed. But, one dog really stood out to me. What I know about dog shows and dog judging barely fills the bottom of a thimble. Nevertheless, I spotted my winner. I didn't know his name, but he had the most beautiful coat. And, not just an attitude. A quiet confidence. An air of, "well, I know who I am, and I don't really care what anyone thinks of me." That look of a life well lived and nothing left to lose.

I didn't know his story until the competition was complete. Until about a minute after I was yelling again at the woman who emerged from the tunnel in an evening gown for her 13 minutes of fame. Yelling at her in plain English, "THE SUSSEX SPANIEL." Like she could hear me. Like she might not see the real beauty of the Giant Schnauzer or the amazing grace of the Scottish Deerhound.

'Thank you all,' I heard her say. Oh, please! Please say, "may I have the Sussex Spaniel."

Then she said, 'I love you all, but tonight it's the Sussex.'

I WIN. I WIN. I WIN.

Old dogs everywhere win. I win.

"10-year-old Sussex spaniel wins Westminster show"

By BEN WALKER

NEW YORK (AP) — An old Sussex spaniel taught dogdom a new trick.

At 10, Stump became the oldest best in show winner ever at the Westminster Kennel Club, coming out of retirement only last week and walking off with the top prize Tuesday night.

A nearly full crowd at Madison Square Garden cheered loudly when judge Sari Tietjen pointed to the new champion. Perhaps the fans knew Stump's backstory — he almost died in 2004 from a medical condition, saved by the vets at Texas A&M.

Or perhaps the people just liked rooting for the old guy.

He's almost 70 in human years!

Never before had a Sussex spaniel won the nation's top pooch show. The previous oldest winner was 8.

With floppy ears and a slow gait, the golden-red Stump beat out a sparkling field. Expert handler Scott Sommer guided him past a giant schnauzer that was ranked the nation's No. 1 show dog, a favored Brussels griffon, a Scottish deerhound named Tiger Woods, a standard poodle with 94 best in show wins, a Scottish terrier and a puli.

Nearly 2,500 dogs were entered at the 133rd edition of Westminster. Last year's champion, a beagle named Uno, was perhaps the most popular winner ever.

Can't Buy Me Love

2009-02-09T10:00:00.006-07:00

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying."

Robert Herrick, 17th Century English Poet (1591-1674)

Like many things on the internet, I'm not exactly sure now how I stumbled upon it. I know I wasn't using StumbleUpon. But, somewhere between Google and an unsolicited eHarmony ad in the margins, I discovered SocialGrid and its somewhat complex "Soulmate Manifesto."

Not that I'm looking or anything. I'm sure I found my soulmate at a backyard barbeque in 1968. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. But, for anyone not yet so fortunate, I wondered if this left-brained approach to love could be useful.

Since I've always made my living in bizness, I was naturally drawn immediately to "Love Economics," which was defined in one, simple sentence: "...a new love theory to promote intelligent dating by explaining love using simple math equations." I rattled around in this section just long enough to multiply my gratitude for not being in the dating arena times my age in dog years, cubed by my shoe size. I solved for a familiar-looking number, somewhere in the region of 9,700,000,000,000.

It didn't take much more calculating to see that I was bored and dismayed by this analytical approach to matchmaking. But, I did take note of one prong of the Love Economics model that seemed to make a lot of sense. I probably know at least 20 people between the ages of 17 and 30 who should consider the implications surrounding "Opportunity Cost of Love."

Forsooth: "Opportunity cost is the net benefit from being in another relationship. Most people are not aware of this hidden cost. While you are in love, you could have been in love with someone who is much better for you. Also, the time, money, and energy that were invested in the relationship could have been spent in having more friends, finding your calling, or furthering your career."

Yes, that's cost I can believe in.

Hit By a Box

2009-02-07T22:57:00.006-07:00

"In terms of fast food and deep understanding of the culture of fast food, I'm your man."

Bill Gates

http://www.hangintherejack.com

Sometime in late 2008, I wrote about my irrational love for Jack in the Box tacos. Somebody at Box headquarters must have read my blog, because they decided to line extend the two for $.99 wonders into a new, higher margin item. I know, because I was there tonight. It was supposed to be just a quick stop for two tacos. Which, with my complete cooperation, morphed into four.

If JITB tacos aren't bad enough -- and, there has always been some question about whether they actually constitute "food" -- the JITB product people have now mercilessly unleashed "Taco Nachos." The two for $.99 tacos cut into four wedges (the shape of nachos!), spread over a bed of shredded lettuce (that would otherwise be put inside the tacos!), topped with sliced jalapeno peppers (real nacho stuff!), and covered with classic not-really-cheese nacho cheese sauce. Thereby eliminating the need for the half-slice of American cheese in the regular tacos.

For this culinary adventure in a plastic tray with a plastic lid, they charge $1.99. The incremental profit for this item over the two for $.99 tacos must be at least $.50. God Bless America!

I will try (almost) anything (at least) once. I ordered the Taco Nachos and two Tacos. And a small soft drink.

Verdict? Two for $.99 tacos cannot be beat.

But, that's not the biggest piece of learning at the foot of the JITB marketing temple tonight. No, that distinction belongs to the "get well" poster for Jack Box situated in the front window by the front door. JITB has launched another web-based underground marketing campaign that, this time, leverages Facebook, Twitter, and Flickr to promote breakfast for dinner, dinner for breakfast, and lunch for late-night snack.

In the late 1990's, JITB created the "Meaty Cheesey Boys," a fictional boys band to launch their "Ultimate Cheeseburger," a double quarter-pound hamburger monstrosity with three or four slices of cheese on it, I can't remember which. They also teased the possibility of the "Spicy Crispy Chicks" in a TV ad for their Spicy Crispy Chicken Sandwich on a Bun, but Jack rejected it as too sexist.

Now, we learn tonight that Jack Box is fighting for his life in a southern California hospital after having been hit by a bus. His surgeon used all his glue gun skills to repair the massive head wound on Jack's massive head, but he's reportedly clinging by a thin thread at this very hour.

Needless to say, this news is quite disturbing. The accident occurred on February 1, but apparently the mainstream media thinks they have better things to do than keep the JITB family informed about Mr. Box's health. What, they don't think the stock price will be affected by this???? For crying out loud, Apple took an enormous hit just on the rumor that Steve Jobs had an eating disorder.

I am outraged. And, based on the information I've pieced together tonight, I believe the evidence will eventually point to the acting-CEO as a person of interest. Either he put out the hit on Jack, or he's a co-conspirator with a jealous competitor. Probably someone located in or near the Indianapolis area.

I've known Jack since back in the day. When they blew him up. Literally blew him up!!! He was just doing his job, sitting in his box, day after day after day and night after night after night. Helping customers in the drive-through. Speaking only when spoken to. Never had a harsh word for anyone and never hurt a fly. Sure, he was boring. But, his job description didn't ask him to lead the company, invent new products, or take a hit for his employees. Well, now someone has gone and done it again!!

In what can only be described as a miracle, Jack survived that murder attempt. He rose from the ashes to take control of the company and lift it to heights never before imagined.

And, if I know Jack, he'll pull through this latest conspiracy, too. I don't know if he'll be able to show his face or get his head through the door ever again, but he'll be back.

Hang in there, Jack.

Know Your Pig

2009-02-07T19:17:00.006-07:00

"Better beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear."

Aesop

In the spirit of all things stimulating, I'm delighted to learn that inventive pork lovers can make bacon sandwiches without those pesky gaps and breaks. If you don't already know about it, you've come to the right Piggy blog. I guess this thingy was invented more than a year ago. But, I was in my NBZ - No Bacon Zone - and missed it altogether.

As Martha would say, that was probably a Good Thing. But, now that I know about it, I cannot resist the urge to chronicle its incredibleness on When Pigs Fly.

Yes folks, I'm here to be certain you know everything you need to know about Bacon Weave. BACON WEAVE! A.k.a. Bacon Placemat.

Yes, you read that right. Let's face it, anything in strips can be woven into stuff. Placemats, baskets, throw rugs. Sandwich filling. I don't care what you do in the privacy of your own home, but I'm recommending you limit your weaving to sandwich filling.

If you love bacon....Or, you're hoping to die a bacon-related death.....and you're still reading this note....your life is about to change forever. Or, for as long as you live. However long that might be. And, probably, not for the better.

Step 1:

Weave bacon on a sheet of aluminum foil

Step 2:

Bake in an oven, somewhere between 350 and 400 degrees F. until done.

It seems like you would want to put the bacon on the foil into an bake-proof skillet to ensure you don't have dripping bacon grease all over your oven. Or, a nasty house fire.

Step 3:

What you do with your bacon weave at this point is your business.

Step 4:

Call cardiologist, if desired.

Coughing Fit

2009-02-06T15:12:00.002-07:00

"Would you like me to give you a formula for....success? It's quite simple, really. Double your rate of failure. You're thinking of failure as the enemy of success. But it isn't at all...you can be discouraged by failure, or you can learn from it. So go ahead and make mistakes. Make all you can. Because, remember that's where you'll find success. On the far side."

Thomas J. Watson, Founder of IBM, 1874-1956.

I wonder what Bill D. Cat would say about the world today. When he was around, he spoke English and had a very advanced vocabulary. But, he frequently choked on hairballs. And, to that he generally responded "Tbbbbbt." Or, "AAACK!"

Based on everything I'm hearing today, either one of those outbursts would fit the occasion.

His creator, Berkeley Breathed, has said that his goal was to create a character so repulsive, that it would have absolutely no merchandising potential. But, as if to illustrate how powerful capitalism really is as an economic concept, all sorts of Bill the Cat trinkets and trash have sold around the world.

A few weeks ago, I took a trip to the far side of fear, uncertainty, and doubt. I tried to write about it. That didn't help. Of course, it didn't change anything either. Everything is much worse now than it was then. And, it's much worse now than I could have ever imagined that it would be now. But, I'm not going to start writing about it again.

I do know one thing. Fear, uncertainly and doubt never jump-started anything.

I heard recently that one of the wacko members of the American Dynasty stated before Congress that pig farms are more dangerous than Osama bin Laden.

OK. Good to know. But, When Pigs Fly isn't going anywhere.

Seeing Red

2009-02-06T09:45:00.002-07:00

"The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood."

Alice Meynell, British poet and essayist (1847–1922): “The True Colour of Life,” Essays (1914)

http://www.nhlbi.nhi.gov/education/hearttruth/

"Celebrate National Wear Red Day–the first Friday in February–when Americans nationwide wear red to show their support for women's heart disease awareness.

"The Heart Truth–a national awareness campaign for women about heart disease–created and introduced the Red Dress as the national symbol for women and heart disease awareness in 2002 to deliver an urgent wakeup call to American women. The Red Dress reminds women of the need to protect their heart health, and inspires them to take action. National Wear Red Day promotes the symbol and provides an opportunity for everyone to unite in this life-saving awareness movement by showing off a favorite red dress, shirt, or tie, or Red Dress Pin.

"Join the National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute; Office on Women's Health, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services; WomenHeart: the National Coalition for Women with Heart Disease; American Heart Association; and many other groups to promote National Wear Red Day in your local community. Visit The Heart Truth's National Wear Red Day toolkit to get free information, ideas, and materials to help share this special day.

"See how other groups from across the nation are supporting National Wear Red Day."

Lemon Law

2009-02-05T11:09:00.023-07:00

"We are living in a world today where lemonade is made from artificial flavors and furniture polish is made from real lemons."

Alfred E. Neuman

Since the high temperature today in metro Denver is forecast to be around 70 degrees, it's hard not to get an early dose of spring fever. No sooner had I pondered the chocolate possibilities for Valentine's Day, and my mind had already wandered over to the next set of somethings that might come next. In my world, "something" in Spring will likely involve fresh lemons .

It didn't take long to find a great-looking lemon cupcake with lemon frosting, a little heart cut from lemon rind, and a fresh raspberry on top. My kind of cupcake. My kind of spring cupcake. But, serendipity being what it is on the internet, I found a lovely lemon subject that looked like it actually got its start on Valentine's Day. Hmmmm.

I've saved similar recipes in the past and never made them. And, the cut-off cupcake top is not a new idea. But, this one looks so sweet and light. I need another cupcake recipe or cupcake idea like I need another heart-shaped cookie cutter -- not much.

But, I can't help myself. It's a 'lil keeper.

Cupcake ingredients
2 sticks butter, softened
2 cups granulated sugar
4 large eggs
2-3/4 cups all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
2 Tablespoons lemon zest
2 Tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
*Confectioner’s sugar for dusting, later in the assembly

Pink Lemon frosting
4 cups confectioners sugar
1/2 cup butter - softened
2 Tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
(about two fresh lemons)
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
2 Tablespoons milk
Gel food color - pink

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees, and prep a cupcake pan with liners.

In a mixing bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one by one, beating after each one.

In a separate bowl combine the flour, baking soda and salt.

Add these dry ingredients to the butter mixture, alternating with the milk. End with the milk (for smoother batter). Mix in the lemon juice and lemon zest.

Fill the cupcake liners TO THE TOP. This will insure that the cup runs over, which is required to cup off the tops. Yield should be about 20 cupcakes. Bake for 20 minutes, test with a toothpick, and cool on a wire rack.

For the frosting:

With an electric mixer, beat sugar and butter. Add the lemon juice and the zest until combined. Then add the milk - increase mixer speed until it becomes light and fluffy, then add gel tint to achieve your desired color, and mix until the color is completely combined.

When the cupcakes have cooled, use a serrated knife to gently cut off the fluffy tops, right at the paper. Using a small heart, or any tiny shaped cookie cutter, cut out the center of the tops. Put the centers aside. Dust the tops with confectioner’s sugar.

Cover the tops of the flat cupcakes with the pink frosting. Place one of the sugar-dusted tops on top of each cupcake. The remaining hearts can be dusted with powdered sugar and served separately.

Half-Baked

2009-02-04T08:16:00.014-07:00

"Do your work with your whole heart, and you will succeed -- there's so little competition."

Elbert Hubbard

We're only 10 days away from Valentine's Day, and bakeries around the world are gearing up for it. For a long time, but especially in the vast world of cake molds, bakers have been able to squeeze their favorite recipes into a heart-shaped dessert. Looking to capture the full measure of each seasonal merchandising opportunity, retailers unveiled their displays of the heart-shaped offerings at about the precise moment the Christmas tree-shaped offerings were whisked off the floor.

I've contributed my fair share to the industry. My heart shapes include a 12" cake pan, 4" tart pans, and cookie cutters in 12 sizes. In the most ambitious years, when we lived on a cul-de-sac with 17 children in seven homes, I sent forth gifts with heart-shaped tags. First names rendered in careful calligraphy. The obligatory hot pink or red cellophane wrap.

It was fun. It was original. And, it took a lot of time.

In the working world, such time for fun and originality is often in short supply. And, I've reached a stage where I either lack sufficient target recipients or the desire to swap my time in the office for time in the kitchen. The only bakery item my husband cares about is the strawberry cake he hopes he'll get for his birthday. That won't happen until April, so he's not even dialed into what he might be missing.

This year, I'm thinking I should just indulge in the window-shopping opportunities that present themselves online. I won't look twice at the over-burdened bakery tables by the entrance to the grocery stores anyway, since none of it eats as good as anything I could make. I probably shouldn't fire up the ovens for heart-shaped anything.

But, I know that I can do it if I change my mind.

The heart-shaped shortbread cookies,
sandwiched with raspberry jam and half-dipped in melted semi-sweet chocolate.

The red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting tinted whatever color dresses well for Valentine's Day. Maybe some candy sprinkles from my red, white, and pink mix. Or, the mix with the little red hearts.

The rolled-out butter cookies, cut into a family of heart-shaped sizes, coated in candy-apple red, powder pink, fuchsia, and white icing.

The double-secret brownie recipe, either baked in the heart-shaped tart pans or cut out from a sheet pan into heart shapes with the cookie cutters.

Oh yes, I can do it.

Maybe I should just go to the cabinet to be sure I have enough powdered sugar on hand.

Just in case I change my mind.

Future Chocolate Shock

2009-02-02T21:39:00.003-07:00

"I have this theory that chocolate slows down the aging process.... It may not be true, but do I dare take the chance?"

Unknown

I don't know when it will happen, but it will happen. Someday. Someday soon.

I will make this cupcake. I will eat it. And, it will be good.

Thanks to www.cupcakestakethecake.com for adding to my Cupcake T'Do List.

Moist chocolate mud cupcakes with creme de menthe infused italian meringue buttercream and topped with an Andes mint.

The Worst of Times

2009-02-02T15:31:00.004-07:00

"The fan fave, "Free Doritos," was created by a couple of non-advertising people, who entered a contest called Doritos "Crash The Super Bowl" program. "

CBS Early Show, 2/2/09

Most years, I watch the Super Bowl for the commercials. It's been that way since 1984, when I had a big dog in the hunt. The one that actually changed the way marketers viewed and used the Super Bowl. But, this year, I cared about the game. I wanted the Arizona Cardinals to win, and I wanted Troy Polamalu to win. So, that was a problem. Arizona almost won, which means they lost. And, Troy Polamalu won. One outta two ain't bad.

Meanwhile, I took my "breaks" during the game to avoid missing the possibility of a really great spot. Too bad that a bunch of people have ruined some of the suspense by airing their spots on YouTube early. Or, funneling segments to news and talking head programs to judge before they've even aired in their entirety and in context.

By halftime, I didn't think I was going to miss anything anymore. The fourth quarter was actually about football -- really, really great football -- so, I took my "break" during the ads. If I missed anything, I can't find it today on any of the online fan voting sites.

Not to worry. I managed to name a favorite spot. Actually, it didn't air inside the game. It ran twice that I know about -- once in the final hour of the seven-day pre-game show and another time in the post-game show that was mercifully short to make way for "The Office." Which was insanely great. Maybe some of their writers can get involved in the Super Bowl ads next year....

I guess most of the fan sites voted for "Free Doritos" as their favorite. Hard to argue with that. I laughed out loud like a fool. But, it's another one of those spots that has a single punch line that makes it. And, depending on your attention span (mine is short), you might find it funny a few more times. Me? Laughed out loud one more time. That's it. That doesn't mean it wasn't great the one time it ran inside the game. But, I don't believe it's a good sign for the ad industry that the fan favorite was conceived by amateurs. I don't know what it means for the economy.

And, I know that some people are just really put out by the E*Trade baby. Sick and tired of him. Sick of seeing him be sick on camera. Tired of him nailing the jocular BMIC (Big Man In highChair), tired of the Blackberry, etc., etc. The spot that ran inside the game was fun -- "Take these broken wings..." I laughed a lot. But, "Big Game Singing Baby" didn't get my first place vote.

I vote for E*Trade "Golf Baby." The Taylor Made visor. The golf club setting.

"Frank, it was on the cart path...."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5431p7gxWOM

Soup for You!

2009-01-31T19:24:00.011-07:00

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

2009-01-30T23:27:00.017-07:00

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

2009-01-30T12:53:00.012-07:00

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

2009-01-29T16:31:00.020-07:00

"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

2009-01-28T20:33:00.019-07:00

"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

2009-01-26T16:04:00.004-07:00

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

2009-01-24T19:46:00.022-07:00

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

2009-01-24T09:01:00.014-07:00

"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!

2009-01-23T14:25:00.007-07:00

“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

2009-01-22T19:19:00.009-07:00

"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

2009-01-22T12:57:00.006-07:00

"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

2009-01-21T09:46:00.019-07:00

"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

2009-01-20T07:05:00.004-07:00

"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

2009-01-19T13:10:00.010-07:00

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

2009-01-18T09:35:00.007-07:00

"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

2009-01-17T08:04:00.021-07:00

"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

2009-01-16T08:42:00.009-07:00

"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!

2009-01-15T08:41:00.008-07:00

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

2009-01-15T07:10:00.015-07:00

"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

2009-01-14T11:40:00.013-07:00

"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

2009-01-13T14:22:00.012-07:00

"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

2009-01-12T14:31:00.005-07:00

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

2009-01-12T07:13:00.007-07:00

"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

2009-01-10T10:40:00.005-07:00

"...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.