It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and Garrick has forgiven me for forgetting to pick him up after his field trip yesterday and leaving him waiting in the cold dark with his teacher for 30 whole minutes.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and I still don't have a decent photo of the boys for this year's holiday card.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and the contractors forgot to bring the shop vac with them today so the entire basement floor is covered in fine white joint compound dust.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and about 4 hours ago my throat starting hurting with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and my husband has some lovely surprise for me involving alcohol but I fear my throat would burst into flame at the proximity.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and our annual Hanukkah party is in one week and I'm not ready.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and I want to finish the gift shopping the weekend -- ALL of it.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and my brother got back to Singapore safely and I wish he would email me more often when he's gone.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and Dennis Lehane has finished his next novel, but I can't find a publication date.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and I had a massage after work from which I did not want to get up again.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and as of this writing, the NaBloPoMo site is down so I can't go grab the badge that shows that I survived NaBloPoMo.
It is the last day of NaBloPoMo and the kids are in the kitchen eating ice cream and I am going to go join them, then go to sleep.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Crawling Toward the Finish Line
It is probably just the sleep deprivation, but I've been truly flailing around for blog topics this week. Thank god Aetna gave me something to rant about, or y'all would have been subjected to a week of pointless mumblings. But in Two! More! Days! NaBloPoMo will be over, and that particular pressure, at least, will ease.
SO. I was out walking Theo last night and banged into a neighbor/casual acquaintance who was out walking her dog. Theo luuuuuuuurvs her pooch, so we stopped to say hello and how-ya-doing. Turns out that M's husband is in the process of leaving her, and she's in that emotional state where it's impossible to answer a casual question lightly, so we ended up standing on the dark sidewalk and chatting for a good fifteen minutes.
Now, this is a woman with whom I am friendly, but we are not friends in any more than a casual way. But you know how it is sometimes with the raw wounds and the over-sharing, right? It turns out that M's husband of 25 years has been cheating on her for 23 of those years, with various other women. He has apparently finally found someone "worth leaving M for" and is making her (M's) life as brutally miserable as he can on his way out the door. Needless to say, M is devastated and cannot yet envision being able to pick up the pieces.
I was as supportive and encouraging as I could be while Theo was sniffing her dog's butt.
What gets me most, I think, is the idea that someone could live in the same house with you for 25 years and be living a lie, day in and day out, for 23 of those goddamn years. I'm no dewy-eyed romantic -- 17 years of marriage will knock that out of you pretty quickly -- but I can't imagine the sheer energy that went into all that falsehood.
I came home from the walk chilled to the bone -- I should have worn gloves, dammit -- and incredibly thankful for what Michael and I have built between us. There have been some dark and scary times in the last 17 years, but honesty has always gotten us through. What a relief it is to have a partner you can always trust not to run when you tell them your darkest, most hidden secrets.
I wish the same for you in your lives, dear internets.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
SITEMETER GIVETH, AND SITEMETER TAKETH AWAY
Tracking my blog traffic is enough to give one vertigo. Now, I know the numbers are not terribly large (!!), but the standard deviation is outlandish. Look at those peaks! And today, all the way down below my normal average.
I can take a hint -- less bitching about health insurance, more cute puppy pix. The masses hoards dozens have spoken.
Theo's tennis ball had gone under the sideboard and he was DETERMINED to retrieve it. Isn't he cuuuuuuuuuute?
****
I am quite astonished to realize that there are only a few more days left in November. NaBloPoMo is almost over, and I haven't missed a day! Whoot! Of course, saying this out loud almost surely means that the Fates are going to conspire to dope-slap me hard enough to prevent my posting either TOMORROW or FRIDAY, but I'll take the chance.
****
In my very first blog post, back over at Cookies for a Cure, I talked about how I feel surrounded by writers. Well, the dynasty has officially expanded unto the fourth generation. Garrick, age 9, wrote a poem in school that has knocked the socks off of his teachers (as well as his family members), and I'd like to leave it with you tonight.
FALL by Garrick S.
September
The school bell rings,
we stop our play,
it's time for another school day.
Our teacher is the best of all.
She'll teach anyone, big and small.
These are the days that we'll remember,
When we're farther in September.
October
I spy the Devil,
A witch at most,
A skeleton, zombie, ghoul and ghost.
I see a mummy,
A goblin too -
I'll hate it when this day is through.
Turn your up-side down world over,
Have a good time in October.
November
Cranberry sauce in my eye,
turkey, stuffing, apple pie.
Everything, good or bliss,
has, no doubt, come up to this.
Not like October or September,
You can eat well in November.
Give a cheer for one and all,
Give a cheer for good old fall!
Give a cheer for one and all,
Give a cheer for good old fall!
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Buckle Up.
Have I bitched to y'all yet about group health insurance?...
Though my job is primarily finance-related, human resources and employee benefits fall under my responsibility as well. Our core full time staff number around 30, and are spread between three locations (Pennsylvania, Florida and Texas). Until a few years ago, Aetna provided decent HMO/PPO coverage in all three locations under one plan, and life was hunky-dory.
Then, about three years ago, Aetna decided that they were no longer going to provide no-deductible coverage in Florida. But at renewal time, did they write me a letter that said "Hey, dude, here are your new rates and we're no longer going to provide no-deductible coverage in Florida! Instead, we're going to substitute a horrible, minimal-coverage, high-deductible plan and charge you three times what you're paying now for it! Have a nice day!"?
No, that would be too simple, wouldn't it?
Instead, they took our renewal (at a 20% rate increase, I might add), and when one of our Florida employees tried to use the insurance for an MRI a few weeks later, they pointed at her and laughed until their bellies ached and then charged her $3,000 for the exam, which would have been covered in full just a few weeks earlier.
Who do you think got to calm that employee down, investigate what happened, try and fail to straighten out the mess, bang her head against her desk, write a $3,000 company check to the hospital for the employee's MRI, and quickly try to find a carrier that would cover all three geographies that we do business in very very very quickly so as to forestall any further such outrages?
When the dust cleared, I had found a new carrier who would provide decent coverage to all three areas -- United HealthCare -- and I quickly converted all of the employees over at a very reasonable rate. The network was a little flimsy and their enrollment department was seriously understaffed, but after about 8 short months we finally had all of the enrollment bugs worked out.
I kid. It took about 10 months.
But the coverage was good and their provider network was growing by leaps and bounds, and I breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the blood off my desk and got back to my real job.
Then renewal time came, and the renewal rates were 50% higher than the initial rates.
Inconceivable!
I started searching for new carriers that would cover all three of our corporate branches. Aetna was still snubbing Florida and the Blues wanted even more money than United HealthCare. I was almost resigned to eating the increase when my boss happened to read an article in some weekly business magazine about the fastest growing insurance companies, one of which was headquartered in western Pennsylvania. A little leg work, and we've got Health Assurance ready and willing to provide decent coverage at a reasonable rate to -- wait for it -- our PENNSYLVANIA EMPLOYEES ONLY. They do not have networks in Florida or Texas, but were more than happy to cover the 18 or so people with Pennsylvania addresses.
So we did it. We bifurcated the company down geographical lines, and with guilt in my heart, I made sure that the plan we selected with Health Assurance mirrored the United HealthCare coverage as closely as humanly possible. Enrollment with Health Assurance went more smoothly than it had any right to, and I breathed another sigh of relief and went back to my real job for another 10-11 months.
Now, you don't have to hit me over the head more than four or five times before I realize that this is an issue that is not going to go away. So this year, I got a little smart. I called our broker a good two months before renewal and and started hounding him to get our renewal rates early early early so that we'd have time to react and find new options if we needed to.
The hounding was only marginally productive, but I had the renewal rates about 45 days before the effective dates, which was better than last year. Health Assurance -- looooooooove. Less than a 10% increase. Got to love them. But! Still no networks in Florida or Texas. Oh well, can't win 'em all -- let's see what United HealthCare has to say.
Would you believe a 50%+ increase? Oh yes. Because god forbid an insurance company should ACTUALLY PROVIDE INSURANCE rather than make a disgusting amount of profit from the premiums!
After I finished with the smelling salts I called the broker and said "Find me a different solution." Yada yada -- the Blues are still even more expensive, yada yada -- what about Aetna? They have a new program in Texas; looks pretty good. Let's ask about Florida. Yeah, I know, we got burned in Florida before, but let's ask. Holy hell -- they say if the primary group location is in Texas, they will cover the employees in Florida! Fantastic! The rates are exceedingly reasonable, sign us up, get me the applications, all systems go. We were now down to about 2-3 weeks before Renewal Date and scrambling to get everything in quickly so that I could get a group number for my peeps to start using the coverage on November 1.
(I'm leaving out the part where we did something a little tricky so that Aetna would cover our Florida and Texas employees but not mind NOT covering the Pennsylvania employees. Shhh! If you really want to know, email me.)
(I'm also leaving out the part where we decided to pay the HUGE November premiums to United HealthCare when I realized that there was no earthly way I was going to have an Aetna group number for my peeps in any kind of reasonable timeframe.)
(I'm also leaving out the part where, around a week ago, we learned that the coverage to the Florida employees was NOT IN FACT THE SAME as the coverage for the Texas employees. The only coverage Aetna could provide the Florida employees was -- wait for it -- a PPO with a DEDUCTIBLE! Not a huge honkin' deductible, but a deductible nonetheless. After yelling and screaming at the broker for not catching this earlier, I luckily thought to ask whether the PREMIUMS were going to be the same for Florida and for Texas. Oops! Nope! Silly girl! The Florida premium was going to be MUCH MUCH more than the Texas premium -- in fact, it was going to be juuuuuuust about the same at the renewal premium quoted by United HealthCare! Lollipops for everyone!)
We scrambled and frantically filled out paperwork and submitted everything to the broker (who submitted it to Aetna) around mid-November. The story should end right here with sweetness and light and rainbows and fuzzy puppies and new insurance cards for everyone. Hooray!
Who thinks that that's how the story actually does end?...
Sorry, that was a nasty trick question BECAUSE THE STORY HASN'T ACTUALLY ENDED YET. Guess what happened yesterday. Go on, guess!
Those of you who guessed that Aetna called the broker and told him that the reasonable rate that was quoted for Texas was NOT ACTUALLY the rate they were going to offer after all are RIGHT and get a gold star. If you guessed that Aetna told the broker that, after reviewing the applications, they would be in fact charging us 50% more than they initially quoted, you get a BIG FAT SHINY GOLD STAR and a shot of tequila.
You get no gold stars or tequila if you guess that I used very loud, unladylike language on the phone with the broker yesterday morning, for that is about the only development that was perfectly reasonable and foreseeable in this whole sorry mess.
Yes, I should fire the broker, who has not been watching my back the way he should. Yes, Aetna pulled a (legal, unfortunately) bait and switch and I do not want to send them a goddamned penny of our hard-earned money. Yes, I should start all over, after I finish weeping and rending my tunic.
But I'm really and truly out of options, I have less than a week before December 1, and I have employees who need medications and doctor visits and x-rays and lab work.
If you need me, I'll be over in the corner banging my head against the bricks. Send chocolate, and next November, for the love of all that's holy and for the sake of what remains of my sanity, vote and vote wisely.
Though my job is primarily finance-related, human resources and employee benefits fall under my responsibility as well. Our core full time staff number around 30, and are spread between three locations (Pennsylvania, Florida and Texas). Until a few years ago, Aetna provided decent HMO/PPO coverage in all three locations under one plan, and life was hunky-dory.
Then, about three years ago, Aetna decided that they were no longer going to provide no-deductible coverage in Florida. But at renewal time, did they write me a letter that said "Hey, dude, here are your new rates and we're no longer going to provide no-deductible coverage in Florida! Instead, we're going to substitute a horrible, minimal-coverage, high-deductible plan and charge you three times what you're paying now for it! Have a nice day!"?
No, that would be too simple, wouldn't it?
Instead, they took our renewal (at a 20% rate increase, I might add), and when one of our Florida employees tried to use the insurance for an MRI a few weeks later, they pointed at her and laughed until their bellies ached and then charged her $3,000 for the exam, which would have been covered in full just a few weeks earlier.
Who do you think got to calm that employee down, investigate what happened, try and fail to straighten out the mess, bang her head against her desk, write a $3,000 company check to the hospital for the employee's MRI, and quickly try to find a carrier that would cover all three geographies that we do business in very very very quickly so as to forestall any further such outrages?
When the dust cleared, I had found a new carrier who would provide decent coverage to all three areas -- United HealthCare -- and I quickly converted all of the employees over at a very reasonable rate. The network was a little flimsy and their enrollment department was seriously understaffed, but after about 8 short months we finally had all of the enrollment bugs worked out.
I kid. It took about 10 months.
But the coverage was good and their provider network was growing by leaps and bounds, and I breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the blood off my desk and got back to my real job.
Then renewal time came, and the renewal rates were 50% higher than the initial rates.
Inconceivable!
I started searching for new carriers that would cover all three of our corporate branches. Aetna was still snubbing Florida and the Blues wanted even more money than United HealthCare. I was almost resigned to eating the increase when my boss happened to read an article in some weekly business magazine about the fastest growing insurance companies, one of which was headquartered in western Pennsylvania. A little leg work, and we've got Health Assurance ready and willing to provide decent coverage at a reasonable rate to -- wait for it -- our PENNSYLVANIA EMPLOYEES ONLY. They do not have networks in Florida or Texas, but were more than happy to cover the 18 or so people with Pennsylvania addresses.
So we did it. We bifurcated the company down geographical lines, and with guilt in my heart, I made sure that the plan we selected with Health Assurance mirrored the United HealthCare coverage as closely as humanly possible. Enrollment with Health Assurance went more smoothly than it had any right to, and I breathed another sigh of relief and went back to my real job for another 10-11 months.
Now, you don't have to hit me over the head more than four or five times before I realize that this is an issue that is not going to go away. So this year, I got a little smart. I called our broker a good two months before renewal and and started hounding him to get our renewal rates early early early so that we'd have time to react and find new options if we needed to.
The hounding was only marginally productive, but I had the renewal rates about 45 days before the effective dates, which was better than last year. Health Assurance -- looooooooove. Less than a 10% increase. Got to love them. But! Still no networks in Florida or Texas. Oh well, can't win 'em all -- let's see what United HealthCare has to say.
Would you believe a 50%+ increase? Oh yes. Because god forbid an insurance company should ACTUALLY PROVIDE INSURANCE rather than make a disgusting amount of profit from the premiums!
After I finished with the smelling salts I called the broker and said "Find me a different solution." Yada yada -- the Blues are still even more expensive, yada yada -- what about Aetna? They have a new program in Texas; looks pretty good. Let's ask about Florida. Yeah, I know, we got burned in Florida before, but let's ask. Holy hell -- they say if the primary group location is in Texas, they will cover the employees in Florida! Fantastic! The rates are exceedingly reasonable, sign us up, get me the applications, all systems go. We were now down to about 2-3 weeks before Renewal Date and scrambling to get everything in quickly so that I could get a group number for my peeps to start using the coverage on November 1.
(I'm leaving out the part where we did something a little tricky so that Aetna would cover our Florida and Texas employees but not mind NOT covering the Pennsylvania employees. Shhh! If you really want to know, email me.)
(I'm also leaving out the part where we decided to pay the HUGE November premiums to United HealthCare when I realized that there was no earthly way I was going to have an Aetna group number for my peeps in any kind of reasonable timeframe.)
(I'm also leaving out the part where, around a week ago, we learned that the coverage to the Florida employees was NOT IN FACT THE SAME as the coverage for the Texas employees. The only coverage Aetna could provide the Florida employees was -- wait for it -- a PPO with a DEDUCTIBLE! Not a huge honkin' deductible, but a deductible nonetheless. After yelling and screaming at the broker for not catching this earlier, I luckily thought to ask whether the PREMIUMS were going to be the same for Florida and for Texas. Oops! Nope! Silly girl! The Florida premium was going to be MUCH MUCH more than the Texas premium -- in fact, it was going to be juuuuuuust about the same at the renewal premium quoted by United HealthCare! Lollipops for everyone!)
We scrambled and frantically filled out paperwork and submitted everything to the broker (who submitted it to Aetna) around mid-November. The story should end right here with sweetness and light and rainbows and fuzzy puppies and new insurance cards for everyone. Hooray!
Who thinks that that's how the story actually does end?...
Sorry, that was a nasty trick question BECAUSE THE STORY HASN'T ACTUALLY ENDED YET. Guess what happened yesterday. Go on, guess!
Those of you who guessed that Aetna called the broker and told him that the reasonable rate that was quoted for Texas was NOT ACTUALLY the rate they were going to offer after all are RIGHT and get a gold star. If you guessed that Aetna told the broker that, after reviewing the applications, they would be in fact charging us 50% more than they initially quoted, you get a BIG FAT SHINY GOLD STAR and a shot of tequila.
You get no gold stars or tequila if you guess that I used very loud, unladylike language on the phone with the broker yesterday morning, for that is about the only development that was perfectly reasonable and foreseeable in this whole sorry mess.
Yes, I should fire the broker, who has not been watching my back the way he should. Yes, Aetna pulled a (legal, unfortunately) bait and switch and I do not want to send them a goddamned penny of our hard-earned money. Yes, I should start all over, after I finish weeping and rending my tunic.
But I'm really and truly out of options, I have less than a week before December 1, and I have employees who need medications and doctor visits and x-rays and lab work.
If you need me, I'll be over in the corner banging my head against the bricks. Send chocolate, and next November, for the love of all that's holy and for the sake of what remains of my sanity, vote and vote wisely.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Self-Pity-Free Zone
Thanks to all for the comments and encouragement. Today I spoke with an Alexander Technique teacher, and while we decided that I'm probably a bit acute right now for Alexander to provide much immediate relief, she was helpful and encouraging and gave me the name of a good physical therapist. I just may take her home and ply her with baked goods in my gratitude.
So, progress will come, and I have determined to stop with the whining and find something else to post about. Look! A cute puppy:
Theo loves empty tonic bottles, yes he does. And I harvested the last of the garden bounty this weekend:
Celeriac, which I planted on a whim. Now, what do I do with it?......
So, progress will come, and I have determined to stop with the whining and find something else to post about. Look! A cute puppy:
Theo loves empty tonic bottles, yes he does. And I harvested the last of the garden bounty this weekend:
Celeriac, which I planted on a whim. Now, what do I do with it?......
Sunday, November 25, 2007
How the Body Falls Apart*, or Swerve Now to Avoid Pity Party Ahead
I don't know how much of it is having turned 40 and how much of it is karmic payback for all the fast living risk taking partying experimenting I did in my 20s, but so far my body is most emphatically NOT enjoying the fifth decade of my life, and not content to be miserable alone, it's dragging me along for the ride.
Recent weight gain aside, my body is sulky. It is acting like a spoiled teenager. It is metaphorically slouching around the house in ripped jeans that hang around the hips, exposing three inches of boxer shorts, and refusing to hang up its jacket. When I make simple requests of it, it either curls its lip and says "You're not the boss of me" or heaves great sighs of martyrdom while stomping upstairs to its room, where it slams the door and cranks some U-2 all the way up to eleven.
Tortured metaphors notwithstanding, it sucks.
My body and I got off to a pretty shaky start together, what with the fashion magazine brainwashing and the neighborhood pedophile and the eating disorders and all. But in my late 20s, our relationship blossomed. I took care of it and it took care of me. I ate well and healthfully. I stretched and exercised with something like regularity. My old back injury (from a dance class in 1984) bothered me rarely and I popped out 2 kids without much ill effect. Hell, I could even do cartwheels and a split as recently as 3-4 years ago. I felt good most of the time, and when I didn't feel good, it didn't take much to put things right again.
What a difference 18 months make. In the past few years, my back injury has gone from dormant to exceedingly active, my PKD has gone from symptom-free to symptom-full, and I suddenly feel very old. I do not have the strength (due to back pain) or energy (due to impaired kidney function) to indulge in the things I love to do without consequences that turn me into a raving beeyotch on wheels, which is really quite unfair to my husband and children, who have to put up with me.
And yes, I am indulging in a bit of a pity party. (Where better to indulge in a bit of self-indulgence than on one's indulgent-by-definition blog?) My back hurts all the time and it sucks. Due to the enlargement of my kidneys and liver, when I eat more than about 1 cup of food by volume at one sitting, it hurts for hours afterward and that sucks. (Yes, Thanksgiving was QUITE A JOY in that regard, thankyouverymuch.) I am getting less than optimal sleep (ref. "back pain") which exacerbates the fatigue inherent in being down to 40% kidney function. I am exhausted all of the time and it sucks. It is the holiday season, which I love and look forward to all year, and I don't know if I'm going to have the strength to do the entertaining and baking and gifting and celebrating that I want want WANT to do and it sucks great big hairy donkey balls.
But you should know, dear internets, that I am not taking this crap lying down. The PKD is the PKD, and there's not much I can do about it besides stick to my low-protein diet. I amspending a small fortune on receiving weekly massage for the @#$%^&* back, and tested the waters this morning with a yoga class. (Initial report -- ouch. Not sure I'm ready to anything as FREAKIN' STRENUOUS as yoga.) But I am going to fix this damn back problem, whatever it takes. Acupuncture may be next. Also large infusions of tequila.
Send limes and soothing yoga music.
*Double extra-credit to anyone who can name the show this song comes from without resorting to Google.
Recent weight gain aside, my body is sulky. It is acting like a spoiled teenager. It is metaphorically slouching around the house in ripped jeans that hang around the hips, exposing three inches of boxer shorts, and refusing to hang up its jacket. When I make simple requests of it, it either curls its lip and says "You're not the boss of me" or heaves great sighs of martyrdom while stomping upstairs to its room, where it slams the door and cranks some U-2 all the way up to eleven.
Tortured metaphors notwithstanding, it sucks.
My body and I got off to a pretty shaky start together, what with the fashion magazine brainwashing and the neighborhood pedophile and the eating disorders and all. But in my late 20s, our relationship blossomed. I took care of it and it took care of me. I ate well and healthfully. I stretched and exercised with something like regularity. My old back injury (from a dance class in 1984) bothered me rarely and I popped out 2 kids without much ill effect. Hell, I could even do cartwheels and a split as recently as 3-4 years ago. I felt good most of the time, and when I didn't feel good, it didn't take much to put things right again.
What a difference 18 months make. In the past few years, my back injury has gone from dormant to exceedingly active, my PKD has gone from symptom-free to symptom-full, and I suddenly feel very old. I do not have the strength (due to back pain) or energy (due to impaired kidney function) to indulge in the things I love to do without consequences that turn me into a raving beeyotch on wheels, which is really quite unfair to my husband and children, who have to put up with me.
And yes, I am indulging in a bit of a pity party. (Where better to indulge in a bit of self-indulgence than on one's indulgent-by-definition blog?) My back hurts all the time and it sucks. Due to the enlargement of my kidneys and liver, when I eat more than about 1 cup of food by volume at one sitting, it hurts for hours afterward and that sucks. (Yes, Thanksgiving was QUITE A JOY in that regard, thankyouverymuch.) I am getting less than optimal sleep (ref. "back pain") which exacerbates the fatigue inherent in being down to 40% kidney function. I am exhausted all of the time and it sucks. It is the holiday season, which I love and look forward to all year, and I don't know if I'm going to have the strength to do the entertaining and baking and gifting and celebrating that I want want WANT to do and it sucks great big hairy donkey balls.
But you should know, dear internets, that I am not taking this crap lying down. The PKD is the PKD, and there's not much I can do about it besides stick to my low-protein diet. I am
Send limes and soothing yoga music.
*Double extra-credit to anyone who can name the show this song comes from without resorting to Google.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
I'm All Out of Pith
The pithiness, it is gone. It has been bludgeoned into silence by stuffing and potatoes and pearl onion casserole and pie. Tonight's post, therefore, is cribbed from Quinlan, age 11.
Yesterday, while driving through our very leafy town after errands:
"In fall, nature is like a painting!"
Thank you and goodnight.
Yesterday, while driving through our very leafy town after errands:
"In fall, nature is like a painting!"
Thank you and goodnight.
Friday, November 23, 2007
What I Baked
This cranberry-lime galette, from Dorie Greenspan's "Baking from My Home to Yours," is absolutely incredible. The balance of flavors, the texture, everything is just right. The filling is a blend of fresh and dried cranberries, lime juice and zest, ginger, brown sugar, ground pecans, and chunks of tart apple.
This turned out very well -- delicious and light, a perfect combination of textures. The three thin cake layers are a light sponge doused with Drambuie syrup; the bottom layer of mousse is chocolate and the top layer of mousse is caramel. I'm going to treat myself to a good, flat rectangular serving dish, as this platter wasn't quite cutting it.
This turned out very well -- delicious and light, a perfect combination of textures. The three thin cake layers are a light sponge doused with Drambuie syrup; the bottom layer of mousse is chocolate and the top layer of mousse is caramel. I'm going to treat myself to a good, flat rectangular serving dish, as this platter wasn't quite cutting it.
Macaronapalooza. Unbaked:
Baked:
Sandwiched with lemon curd:
The piece de resistance. This is an entremet from my fall class at the French Pastry School in Chicago.
The piece de resistance. This is an entremet from my fall class at the French Pastry School in Chicago.
Shortbread base, a layer of vanilla cream studded with raspberries (hard to see in this photo), and a layer of chocolate biscuit, all surrounded by raspberry milk chocolate mousse and glazed with a milk chocolate glaze. Each element is fairly simple on its own; the challenge is in the construction. For my first attempt at this sort of thing in my home kitchen with make-do equipment (instead of hundreds of dollars worth of Flexipan molds), I'm pretty proud of it.
I knocked myself out pretty good with all this baking (and eating) and am ready for a long winter's nap. Happy Black Friday!
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Burp.
Wake
Stretch effin' back
Eat Cheerios & drink tea
Bake bake bake bake macarons bake bake bake dinner rolls bake bake bake bake chocolate biscuit bake bake bake bake shortbread bake bake bake
Wash dishes dishes dishes dishes dishes dishes
Stretch effin' back again
Shower
Drive drive drive to in-laws
Drink wine wine wine wine and eat
Drive drive drive home
Burp
Collapse
Details and pix tomorrow, when we do it all over again with my parents.
Send Rolaids and a kitchen wench for dishwashing.
Stretch effin' back
Eat Cheerios & drink tea
Bake bake bake bake macarons bake bake bake dinner rolls bake bake bake bake chocolate biscuit bake bake bake bake shortbread bake bake bake
Wash dishes dishes dishes dishes dishes dishes
Stretch effin' back again
Shower
Drive drive drive to in-laws
Drink wine wine wine wine and eat
Drive drive drive home
Burp
Collapse
Details and pix tomorrow, when we do it all over again with my parents.
Send Rolaids and a kitchen wench for dishwashing.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
NaBloPoMo-ing My Ass Off
Phoebe has tagged me for my second meme. Thanks, Phoebe! Let's see, I might even "know" a few bloggers to pass this along to. I think. Does it count if I've known them for less than 24 hours?....
THE RULES
a. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog. (See above -- hi, Phoebe!)
b. Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
c. Tag 7 random people participating in nablopomo at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
d. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT MOI
MemeGRL
Vinkus07
Tapdancing On the Edge of Reason
and anyone else reading along who wants in.
Happy turkey, everyone!
THE RULES
a. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog. (See above -- hi, Phoebe!)
b. Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
c. Tag 7 random people participating in nablopomo at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
d. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT MOI
- I pick my cuticles.
- I took piano lessons for eight years as a kid and wish I had time to get back to it.
- I am not easily intimidated.
- When we were little, my younger brother was a huge brat. Now he is one of my favorite people in the world. (Go see what he does here -- it is mind-blowingly cool.)
- I have an embarrassingly bad memory for things my friends tell me.
- My kids both have mild Asperger's Syndrome. The way their minds work blows me away.
- I'm completely gobsmacked that there's anyone reading Lemonade & Kidneys beside my husband and my mom. (Hi, Mom!)
MemeGRL
Vinkus07
Tapdancing On the Edge of Reason
and anyone else reading along who wants in.
Happy turkey, everyone!
Share the Luuuuuv
Hey folks,
Go over to i am bossy and share a little bloggy love with her. She linked to me today in her post, and as a result my visitors stats have more than doubled. She is hip and funny and if you read blogs at all, you should read her. Mhaw, bossy!
Go over to i am bossy and share a little bloggy love with her. She linked to me today in her post, and as a result my visitors stats have more than doubled. She is hip and funny and if you read blogs at all, you should read her. Mhaw, bossy!
Blame the Hormones
Today my raging judgmental inner beeyotch will not be silenced. Witness this post by a self-avowed long-time home-schooling mom, read this morning on a chat board (which shall remain nameless to protect the ignorant):
"I love to hear from people whose kids are grown and doing their own thing. Do you mind if I ask what your boy's are doing now?"
If you need me, I will be outside banging my head against the brick wall. Repeatedly.
"I love to hear from people whose kids are grown and doing their own thing. Do you mind if I ask what your boy's are doing now?"
If you need me, I will be outside banging my head against the brick wall. Repeatedly.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Woman on the Verge
I had a long, thoughtful post for tonight all mapped out in my head, but it's going to have to wait. I had planned to attend my first yoga class this evening, as another step toward reclaiming my aching body from the abuse I've heaped on it over the last year. I got changed and drove over to the studio only to find that the Tuesday evening class no longer exists (despite being listed on the schedule that I picked up LESS THAN A WEEK AGO).
Being the picture of mental health that I currently am, this has precipitated a class-three nervous breakdown and inability to cope with anything other than an iced glass of Drambuie and a hot bath.
Serenity now! See you tomorrow.
Being the picture of mental health that I currently am, this has precipitated a class-three nervous breakdown and inability to cope with anything other than an iced glass of Drambuie and a hot bath.
Serenity now! See you tomorrow.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Rhetorical
My brain, it runneth over with imponderables today.
- WHY am I still wheezing after 6 days of prednisone?
- WHY hasn't Britney been handcuffed and bodily dragged into rehab yet?
- WHY did my brain feel it necessary to wake me up last night 30 minutes after I fell asleep (at 1 in the damn AM, for the record), merely to check what time it was?
- WHY does the leading strip-mall developer in our little burg keep replacing low-traffic jewelry stores with high-traffic (chain) restaurants, without adding parking spots?
- WHY is a mini-Butterfinger bar from the office candy drawer so much more satisfying than a healthy salad?
- WHY is my hair falling out by handfuls? (Hands-ful?)
- WHY is Chris Cooper such an incredible actor that even Ryan Phillipe looks good next to him? (Go rent Breach. Immediately. Then come back and tell me how he does it.)
- WHY is it that I don't notice how truly filthy my windows and woodwork are until 2-3 weeks before being inundated with house guests?
- WHY, if we can put men on the moon, is it apparently impossible to engineer a truly comfortable bra?
- WHY did it take the concerted efforts of six family members and upwards of seven phone calls to manage an RSVP to a Thanksgiving Day invitation from my in-laws?
- WHY does my brother from Singapore bring duty-free Scotch, but not duty-free tequila?
After 18 Years of Marriage, He's Finally Learning
Sunday, our house, post breakfast.
Me: So, what's on your agenda today? What are you hoping to get done?
I think I'll keep him.
(Think how old I'd be by the time I got a new one trained properly.)
Me: So, what's on your agenda today? What are you hoping to get done?
** pause **
Him: What are you hoping I'll get done today?I think I'll keep him.
(Think how old I'd be by the time I got a new one trained properly.)
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Askew
I am feeling quite askew this weekend. I don't know how much of it is a function of being tired, how much may be a result of the prednisone I've been on this week, and how much is due to the phase of the moon, but I am quite off-kilter. I've been having vividly disturbing dreams wherein the kids are hurt in horrific ways and I must force myself awake with a jolt in order to know for sure that it's not really happening.
I don't like it.
I've been trying to jar myself back into alignment by keeping busybusybusy this weekend. Yesterday I baked (and froze) this multi-component cake for Thursday'spig-out feast, corralled the kids into doing some household chores, cleaned off the over-burdened craft shelves (mostly by dumping 18 months worth of drawings into bags for recycling), hauled a Mazda Protege-full of papers to the recycle center, grocery shopped, printed invitations to our holiday open house and our family Chanukah party, ran three loads of laundry, and oversaw homework. Today I went to the wholesale club and to Target, made huge batches of creme anglaise and raspberry sauce (for eventual use on Friday), menu-planned the holiday open house, visited with my brother, ran a fourth load of laundry, and made this season's first fire in the fireplace.
It's not working. When I lie on the floor in front of the fireplace, the room spins. I am riddled with anxiety over I-know-not-what. On the theory that a moving target gathers no moss (or something), I have a feeling I'm going to keep being busy until it goes away.
Send tequila and Ambien.
I don't like it.
I've been trying to jar myself back into alignment by keeping busybusybusy this weekend. Yesterday I baked (and froze) this multi-component cake for Thursday's
It's not working. When I lie on the floor in front of the fireplace, the room spins. I am riddled with anxiety over I-know-not-what. On the theory that a moving target gathers no moss (or something), I have a feeling I'm going to keep being busy until it goes away.
Send tequila and Ambien.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Holiday Madness Begins
The baking began today. 
from my class at the French Pastry School in Chicago (also for Friday). Juuuuust in case you're curious, what you're looking at, from bottom to top, is: shortbread, milk chocolate raspberry mousse, vanilla creme brulee (with sunken raspberries), chocolate biscuit, more mousse, and then a shiny milk chocolate glaze. There is a ring of raspberry macarons around the bottom edge of the cake (you can see on on the left of the photo); I may or may not get that far by Friday.
I am making this cake
from this book to bring to my in-laws on Thursday. It is a triple-layer of Drambuie-soaked sponge cake sandwiched with a layer of chocolate mousse and a layer of caramel mousse. Better than a poke in the eye. Also on the docket: cloverleaf rolls from The Bread Bible (for Thursday), Dorie's Cranberry-Lime Galette (for Friday at my parents'), and this lovely entremet
from my class at the French Pastry School in Chicago (also for Friday). Juuuuust in case you're curious, what you're looking at, from bottom to top, is: shortbread, milk chocolate raspberry mousse, vanilla creme brulee (with sunken raspberries), chocolate biscuit, more mousse, and then a shiny milk chocolate glaze. There is a ring of raspberry macarons around the bottom edge of the cake (you can see on on the left of the photo); I may or may not get that far by Friday.
The recipes from our class were scaled pretty large -- I think the yield on this is about 6 seven-inch cakes. They do freeze well, though, so I'm thinking I'll cut the recipe in half-ish, make nine-inch cakes, and end up with 2 or 3 of them. I'll let you know when to be here with your fork...
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Brain Dead. Send Vodka and Lemon Twists.
Our investors are coming to town tomorrow for a Board meeting and I am but fried to a crisp. My job title is Comptroller; in actuality, I am the Comptroller, VP of Administrative Affairs, Den Mother and Career Coach to the rest of the (all younger) VPs and Director-level staff. Prepping my own work for a Board meeting is a big enough task; getting everyone else ready to rumble is just non-stop, toe-curlingly, relentlessly exhausting.
I should mention that I love my job, my bosses, and my co-workers, I really do. (I even love our investors. A more fantabulous bunch of investment bankers you will never meet.) Someday I'll post more about it, because the organizational dynamics at play are utterly fascinating to me, and therefore might be of some slight interest to my pretty Internet friends.
But not tonight! Tonight I am fried to a crisp. Michael is out, the kids are down, the dog is quiet, and the last half of "Grey's Anatomy" is waiting in the DVR. Not wanting to give in to the total lametude (totally a word) of a cop-out post, though, I thought I'd share the genesis for my blog name. It's a cute little bedtime story: I'm telling the story, then I'm going to bed.
Two years ago, when my grandmother moved to an assisted living community nearby and stopped driving, Michael and I bought her car from her. It's a young-ish Honda Accord, and believe me when I tell you it had not seen much use -- perfect for Michael and his long commute. We wrote Gram a check and in addition to the car, got the extra good karma of her satisfaction that the car was going to be of "good use" to somebody.
As must befall all Honda Accords eventually, however, the miles started catching up with it this past summer and things started to break. I think there was an exhaust system problem, and several tires needed replacing. The starter went. Et cetera and so forth.
On one of these many triage missions to our local mechanic, Michael picked up an old New Yorker magazine to flip through while he waited. I'm sure he snorted back an audible laugh when he got to this cartoon, and I'm equally sure he asked the mechanics' permission before ripping the cartoon out to bring home to me. We were deep into the selling-cookies-to-raise-money scheme by then, and I was punch-drunk enough to fall in love with the cartoon, stick it on my fridge, and make goo-goo eyes at it every time I walked by.
Months passed, cookie sales ended, and as I cast about for a name for the new blog, Michael very sensibly pointed out that I would never come up with anything as good as Lemonade and Kidneys. As soon as he said it, I knew that he was right, as he so often is.
Thank you, and goodnight.
I should mention that I love my job, my bosses, and my co-workers, I really do. (I even love our investors. A more fantabulous bunch of investment bankers you will never meet.) Someday I'll post more about it, because the organizational dynamics at play are utterly fascinating to me, and therefore might be of some slight interest to my pretty Internet friends.
But not tonight! Tonight I am fried to a crisp. Michael is out, the kids are down, the dog is quiet, and the last half of "Grey's Anatomy" is waiting in the DVR. Not wanting to give in to the total lametude (totally a word) of a cop-out post, though, I thought I'd share the genesis for my blog name. It's a cute little bedtime story: I'm telling the story, then I'm going to bed.
Two years ago, when my grandmother moved to an assisted living community nearby and stopped driving, Michael and I bought her car from her. It's a young-ish Honda Accord, and believe me when I tell you it had not seen much use -- perfect for Michael and his long commute. We wrote Gram a check and in addition to the car, got the extra good karma of her satisfaction that the car was going to be of "good use" to somebody.
As must befall all Honda Accords eventually, however, the miles started catching up with it this past summer and things started to break. I think there was an exhaust system problem, and several tires needed replacing. The starter went. Et cetera and so forth.
On one of these many triage missions to our local mechanic, Michael picked up an old New Yorker magazine to flip through while he waited. I'm sure he snorted back an audible laugh when he got to this cartoon, and I'm equally sure he asked the mechanics' permission before ripping the cartoon out to bring home to me. We were deep into the selling-cookies-to-raise-money scheme by then, and I was punch-drunk enough to fall in love with the cartoon, stick it on my fridge, and make goo-goo eyes at it every time I walked by.
Months passed, cookie sales ended, and as I cast about for a name for the new blog, Michael very sensibly pointed out that I would never come up with anything as good as Lemonade and Kidneys. As soon as he said it, I knew that he was right, as he so often is.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Holiday Prep 101
Ten pounds of 63% bittersweet chocolate.
Ten pounds of butter (on sale for $2.50/lb -- woot!).
Four-and-a-half pounds of nuts.
Two pounds of all-butter puff pastry.
I am ready to bake -- BRING IT ON!
Ten pounds of butter (on sale for $2.50/lb -- woot!).
Four-and-a-half pounds of nuts.
Two pounds of all-butter puff pastry.
I am ready to bake -- BRING IT ON!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Books, and My Very First Meme
Boy howdy, I'm starting to feel like a real blogger. Not only am I no longer feeling terror-stricken toward the end of the day when I realize I still "have" to post, but I'm on TWO real bloggers blog rolls. Heady stuff for a newbie! Plus, the very pretty Memegrl has tagged me for my first meme. I certainly feel a sense of moment about it all.
It's nice that this is a book meme, because I can ramble on about books for HOURS on end. I was a huge reader as a kid, largely due to the fact that there was no television in our house during those years. (Now, of course, my two parents have no fewer than four televisions. Bygones!) I also was a very solitary kid in elementary school, as I had skipped a grade and ended up being close to two years younger than most of my (very socially advanced and somewhat cruel) classmates for the duration. That was tough, and the retreat that books offered was nothing less than salvation.
Which is not to say that I read particularly good books in those elementary years. I remember a strong affinity for Agatha Christie, primarily the novels but also the short stories. I also remember a huge, ancient collection of Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins, and similar series that I used to plow through with alacrity. I remember discovering V.C. Andrews and devouring the "Flowers in the Attic" series; I also remember my mother being appalled when she realized some of the content of said series, and her trying to interest me in "Lady Chatterly's Lover" instead. (I guess her reasoning was that if I was going to be reading smut, better that it be highbrow, British smut.)
(Eventually I got around to S.E. Hinton and Judy Blume. I distinctly remember one evening in the sixth grade [which would have put me at age 10ish], upon hearing that my father was headed to the mall on an errand, begging him to duck into the bookstore and pick up a copy of "Forever" for me. Duck into the bookstore he did, and unfortunately, he took a moment to rifle the pages before parting with his dough. How acute my mother's embarrassment must have been, as she was the one deputized to whisper to me at bedtime that Daddy had inspected the book, and had decided it was a little "R-rated" for me. Thus eliminating any chance I had at becoming the coolest sixth-grader in school that year.)
I did eventually read "Lady Chatterly's Lover," but did not really understand it until years later, and D.H. Lawrence never became one of my favorite writers. Oh, but! How I remember seeing the film of "A Room with a View" as a teenager and running out to purchase the book, and being stunned by the revelation that even with a good movie, the book could be even better. (It still annoys me that the filmmakers did not find a field of violets for the crucial scene in which Julian Sands plants a nice smooch on little Helena Bonham Carter. Buttercups Are Not The Same Thing.) My collection of E.M. Forster grew quickly, and he is one of the authors that I still revisit fondly from time to time, re-reading through all of work in succession.
In fact, most of my reading these days is of a re-visiting nature. That is to say, I am more of a re-reader than a reader. Michael manages to find time to tackle such esoterica as Proust and the long, historical novels of Dorothy Dunnett, but my reading minutes these days (months, years) are confined to the half-hour before sleep. I have a tendency toward insomnia, and if I pick up anything new, my brain comes alive and starts to buzz, and before I know it, it is the wee hours of the morning, and just as I did in elementary school, I am reading by the tiny circle of light cast by my bedside lamp, turning pages as softly as I can, trying not to waken my husband (then, mother) and get caught in the act.
But when I travel, whether with the family or for work, I always bring along something new to chew on. Outside of the pressure of the regular week (and particularly at the beach), I devour new books. Most recently, I thoroughly enjoyed Joshilyn Jackson's "gods in alabama" and am half-way through "Bel Canto", which I started while traveling for my grandmother's funeral recently. Last year, "The Kite Runner" stunned me -- I'm not sure whether I've recovered from that book yet. Slowly but surely, I add authors and titles to my collection of friends to visit, and re-visit.
****
A close second, "Sophie's Choice" by William Styron. Breathtaking. ("Lie Down in Darkness" was a strong contender, but it evokes "The Sounds and the Fury" [which I also love] a little too neatly.)
Third, "Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Less perfectly composed than "Gatsby" but more heartfelt.
Fourth, "Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger. Perfection, deftly writ.
Fifth, "Mystic River" by Dennis Lehane. As good as the movie is, it does not hold a candle to the book. Lehane has an incredible command of tone and character, and he casts a spell of dread and inevitability that is haunting.
Sixth, honorary special mention, non-fiction category: "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan. This book could, and might, change the world.
****
I think I'm supposed to tag 5 other bloggers to carry on the meme, but I don't know who to tag, so -- if you're lurking and a blogger, you are IT. Hopefully by the next meme, I'll have a posse of my own to pass these things along to. Meanwhile, I hope my ramblings will inspire you to discover some new authors. If you do nothing else, go read "The Kite Runner." It's brilliant and will move you in surprising ways. Just don't start it at bedtime, or you'll be up until 3am. Don't say I didn't warn you.
It's nice that this is a book meme, because I can ramble on about books for HOURS on end. I was a huge reader as a kid, largely due to the fact that there was no television in our house during those years. (Now, of course, my two parents have no fewer than four televisions. Bygones!) I also was a very solitary kid in elementary school, as I had skipped a grade and ended up being close to two years younger than most of my (very socially advanced and somewhat cruel) classmates for the duration. That was tough, and the retreat that books offered was nothing less than salvation.
Which is not to say that I read particularly good books in those elementary years. I remember a strong affinity for Agatha Christie, primarily the novels but also the short stories. I also remember a huge, ancient collection of Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins, and similar series that I used to plow through with alacrity. I remember discovering V.C. Andrews and devouring the "Flowers in the Attic" series; I also remember my mother being appalled when she realized some of the content of said series, and her trying to interest me in "Lady Chatterly's Lover" instead. (I guess her reasoning was that if I was going to be reading smut, better that it be highbrow, British smut.)
(Eventually I got around to S.E. Hinton and Judy Blume. I distinctly remember one evening in the sixth grade [which would have put me at age 10ish], upon hearing that my father was headed to the mall on an errand, begging him to duck into the bookstore and pick up a copy of "Forever" for me. Duck into the bookstore he did, and unfortunately, he took a moment to rifle the pages before parting with his dough. How acute my mother's embarrassment must have been, as she was the one deputized to whisper to me at bedtime that Daddy had inspected the book, and had decided it was a little "R-rated" for me. Thus eliminating any chance I had at becoming the coolest sixth-grader in school that year.)
I did eventually read "Lady Chatterly's Lover," but did not really understand it until years later, and D.H. Lawrence never became one of my favorite writers. Oh, but! How I remember seeing the film of "A Room with a View" as a teenager and running out to purchase the book, and being stunned by the revelation that even with a good movie, the book could be even better. (It still annoys me that the filmmakers did not find a field of violets for the crucial scene in which Julian Sands plants a nice smooch on little Helena Bonham Carter. Buttercups Are Not The Same Thing.) My collection of E.M. Forster grew quickly, and he is one of the authors that I still revisit fondly from time to time, re-reading through all of work in succession.
In fact, most of my reading these days is of a re-visiting nature. That is to say, I am more of a re-reader than a reader. Michael manages to find time to tackle such esoterica as Proust and the long, historical novels of Dorothy Dunnett, but my reading minutes these days (months, years) are confined to the half-hour before sleep. I have a tendency toward insomnia, and if I pick up anything new, my brain comes alive and starts to buzz, and before I know it, it is the wee hours of the morning, and just as I did in elementary school, I am reading by the tiny circle of light cast by my bedside lamp, turning pages as softly as I can, trying not to waken my husband (then, mother) and get caught in the act.
But when I travel, whether with the family or for work, I always bring along something new to chew on. Outside of the pressure of the regular week (and particularly at the beach), I devour new books. Most recently, I thoroughly enjoyed Joshilyn Jackson's "gods in alabama" and am half-way through "Bel Canto", which I started while traveling for my grandmother's funeral recently. Last year, "The Kite Runner" stunned me -- I'm not sure whether I've recovered from that book yet. Slowly but surely, I add authors and titles to my collection of friends to visit, and re-visit.
****
Total number of books I own: About fifty-bazillion. (Only a slight exaggeration.).
Last book I read: Last week I re-read Anthony Summers' investigative biography, "Goddess: The Secret Lives of Marilyn Monroe." I really don't know what moved me to pull it off the shelf, but I'm still impressed with his research and her story still saddens me.
Last book I read before sleep last night: I finished re-reading the play "The House of Blue Leaves." Stunning, heart-wrenching work.
Last book I finished: See above.
Last book I bought: When I was in Chicago in September, I was afraid I would run out of reading material. I wandered into a used book store and grabbed a copy of Margaret Atwood's "The Blind Assassin." I still haven't read it.
Five Meaningful Books:
First position must go to John Irving's "A Prayer for Owen Meany." My favorite contemporary writer, and this is his best work. (I keep trying to like "The Cider House Rules" better than "Meany," but I can't.)A close second, "Sophie's Choice" by William Styron. Breathtaking. ("Lie Down in Darkness" was a strong contender, but it evokes "The Sounds and the Fury" [which I also love] a little too neatly.)
Third, "Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Less perfectly composed than "Gatsby" but more heartfelt.
Fourth, "Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger. Perfection, deftly writ.
Fifth, "Mystic River" by Dennis Lehane. As good as the movie is, it does not hold a candle to the book. Lehane has an incredible command of tone and character, and he casts a spell of dread and inevitability that is haunting.
Sixth, honorary special mention, non-fiction category: "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan. This book could, and might, change the world.
****
I think I'm supposed to tag 5 other bloggers to carry on the meme, but I don't know who to tag, so -- if you're lurking and a blogger, you are IT. Hopefully by the next meme, I'll have a posse of my own to pass these things along to. Meanwhile, I hope my ramblings will inspire you to discover some new authors. If you do nothing else, go read "The Kite Runner." It's brilliant and will move you in surprising ways. Just don't start it at bedtime, or you'll be up until 3am. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Monday, November 12, 2007
How to Kill Your Metabolism in Five Easy Steps
- Take night classes for a year and study during your all of your lunch hours, meaning that
- you never get to the gym any more, so you cancel your membership, while
- you eat lots of lousy salads from Au Bon Pain for dinner during your year of night classes, and
- don't resist the bags of chips placed conveniently near the cash register.
- Then turn 40.
(For the record, two weeks before Thanksgiving is a crappy time to learn you've gained 10 pounds over the last year. Damn.)
Sunday, November 11, 2007
On an Ordinary Sunday
We had a VERY VERY busy day today.
We stumbled out of bed late and Michael made breakfast (pancakes and bacon, our Sunday ritual). Then he started cleaning out the fridge, all the way down to washing the glass shelves (I know!). The kids cleaned two of the threetoy pits upstairs rooms, and then got started on some lingering homework projects.
We stumbled out of bed late and Michael made breakfast (pancakes and bacon, our Sunday ritual). Then he started cleaning out the fridge, all the way down to washing the glass shelves (I know!). The kids cleaned two of the three
After he fed the kids lunch, Michael tackled the freezer, washed lots of dishes, backed up the computer (Mir's experience last week has me spooked) and moved on to packing up the basement clutter, as we hope and pray expect the contractors will be starting this week).
Me? I baked.
Gorgeous three-layer chocolate cake; recipe by Alice Medrich from an old issue of Fine Cooking. It almost makes up for the fact that the sunroom isn't vacuumed and there's more laundry to put away.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Overheard
At the Fishkill Courtyard by Marriott, 2AM, 11/10:
Garrick (standing up on his pull-out sofa bed): Daddy, PLEASE stop snoring so much!
That's me kissing my grandfather's name. More tomorrow.
Garrick (standing up on his pull-out sofa bed): Daddy, PLEASE stop snoring so much!
****
It was all just exhausting, and beautiful, and heartbreaking, and we are glad to be home and stuffed to the gills with Chinese take-out. No, it's not on my diet, and tonight I just don't care.
That's me kissing my grandfather's name. More tomorrow.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Memory
In the last year of her life, my grandmother found a curious new calling as a memoirist. Several of her essays were published by the in-house newsletter at her assisted living community. My favorite is the one I've reproduced here, in honor of her interment today.
*****
*****
THE GOLDEN FLEECE
by Mildred Mammano
Being a newly married young woman living on a limited income, my opportunities for this indulgence were infrequent to say the least. That’s not to say I didn’t lust nor dream of the fashionable life, of some day saying “the devil take frugality—and the weekly budget.” A little self-indulgence is good for the soul.
I summoned the manager and explained that I didn’t have the cash: I could not easily make it back to the city and needed to take the coat home with me—if he couldn’t agree to my terms, there would be no sale. I was not
My response? “Make an exception!” He looked me over and studied my NY Central train ticket carefully. With a deep breath he finally uttered a reluctant okay. It is thus that I boarded the train again with my prize in hand—the golden fleece.
****
While we were all keeping vigil by her bedside on the night she died, my brother pulled out his laptop and started scrolling through archival family photos. When he got to this one, which I'd never seen before, I instantly knew that this photo was taken to commemorate the events chronicled above.
My grandmother saved the fur collar long after the woolen body of this coat had worn to threads.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Randomness
Today, in a masterful display of procrastination, I decided to get serious about www.bloglines.com in an effort to aggregate all of the websites and blogs that I visit on a daily basis.
I'm embarrassed at how many sites are now on my "myblogs" list. (No, I'm not going to tell you. It's mortifying.) But I figure it will actually save me time in the long run, as I no longer have to check each site individually for new posts.
Now I'm going to have to take up a new time-wasting habit to pick up the slack. Any suggestions?
****
Today was the talent show at the elementary school, and Garrick had decided to learn more of the Richard III speech to present. Well, bless my buttons if the little scamp didn't memorize virtually the whole damn thing (including the "lascivious pleasings of the lute", god help us; terminating with "since I cannot prove a lover...I am determined to prove a villain...)! He did a lovely job, speaking clearly and with distinction. He also understands the whole blessed speech (with - hopefully - the exception of the word lascivious); I'm rather enjoying this explication, but daren't show it to G. I'd never hear the end of it.
****
In our middle school, the sixth grade "theme" for the year is the United Nations, and last night was the U.N. Expo. The kids were given tickets and passports outlining a variety of activity stops laid out around the school, each illustrating or pertaining to a different country and culture. Quin had a fabulous time sampling crepes, learning some Japanese calligraphy, and tie-dying his gym shirt. (What? Isn't Hippie Nation part of the U.N., dudes?) After the activities, all of the sixth graders convened in the cafeteria with family members to sample desserts from around the world. (Cacophony = 250 sixth graders hopped up on sugar, confined to a big, echo-ey space. Yikes.) Quin and I made tres leches cake to illustrate his assigned country of Panama. Perhaps the children would have been quieter if I hadn't omitted the rum from the cake's soaking syrup?...
****
Tomorrow morning we are getting up early, kennelling the dog, and driving up to Fishkill, New York to bury my grandmother's ashes. As was her wish, she was cremated right away (she passed away on September 17) and Garrick is very put out that he is not getting to see her one last time. He does not approve of the cremating. There will be no officiant at the interment, as my Grandmother was a heretical lapsed Jewish person who dared to marry an Italian Catholic person and subsequently gave up all religion as a bad job. My mother has written a poem to read at the gravesite, which should be as much heart-string-pulling as we can all bear, anyway. Then, of course, we will eat. And sleep. And drive home on Saturday.
Tomorrow's post will be in honor of my grandmother.
****
I'm embarrassed at how many sites are now on my "myblogs" list. (No, I'm not going to tell you. It's mortifying.) But I figure it will actually save me time in the long run, as I no longer have to check each site individually for new posts.
Now I'm going to have to take up a new time-wasting habit to pick up the slack. Any suggestions?
****
Today was the talent show at the elementary school, and Garrick had decided to learn more of the Richard III speech to present. Well, bless my buttons if the little scamp didn't memorize virtually the whole damn thing (including the "lascivious pleasings of the lute", god help us; terminating with "since I cannot prove a lover...I am determined to prove a villain...)! He did a lovely job, speaking clearly and with distinction. He also understands the whole blessed speech (with - hopefully - the exception of the word lascivious); I'm rather enjoying this explication, but daren't show it to G. I'd never hear the end of it.
****
In our middle school, the sixth grade "theme" for the year is the United Nations, and last night was the U.N. Expo. The kids were given tickets and passports outlining a variety of activity stops laid out around the school, each illustrating or pertaining to a different country and culture. Quin had a fabulous time sampling crepes, learning some Japanese calligraphy, and tie-dying his gym shirt. (What? Isn't Hippie Nation part of the U.N., dudes?) After the activities, all of the sixth graders convened in the cafeteria with family members to sample desserts from around the world. (Cacophony = 250 sixth graders hopped up on sugar, confined to a big, echo-ey space. Yikes.) Quin and I made tres leches cake to illustrate his assigned country of Panama. Perhaps the children would have been quieter if I hadn't omitted the rum from the cake's soaking syrup?...
****
Tomorrow morning we are getting up early, kennelling the dog, and driving up to Fishkill, New York to bury my grandmother's ashes. As was her wish, she was cremated right away (she passed away on September 17) and Garrick is very put out that he is not getting to see her one last time. He does not approve of the cremating. There will be no officiant at the interment, as my Grandmother was a heretical lapsed Jewish person who dared to marry an Italian Catholic person and subsequently gave up all religion as a bad job. My mother has written a poem to read at the gravesite, which should be as much heart-string-pulling as we can all bear, anyway. Then, of course, we will eat. And sleep. And drive home on Saturday.
Tomorrow's post will be in honor of my grandmother.
****
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Three Little Egg Whites and How They Grew
It started innocently enough, with a batch of creme brulee.
Matters intensified with a double-batch of lemon curd.
There might have been another batch of creme brulee along the way, and possibly some creme anglaise....
But what really put me over the top was the chocolate cream pie.
Matters intensified with a double-batch of lemon curd.
There might have been another batch of creme brulee along the way, and possibly some creme anglaise....
But what really put me over the top was the chocolate cream pie.
That's about 8 cups of egg whites, y'all.
I used up 1.5 cups this weekend with a lemon angel food cake.
Only 6.5 cups to go.
* The title of yesterday's post is from the Broadway show "Hairspray."
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Mama, I'm a Big Girl Now!*
Peep this -- it came in the mail yesterday, framed and everything.
I am inordinately pleased with myself. I worked hard, I learned a lot, I got terrific grades (much better than my undergraduate grades, lemme tell you). Plus, it's Wharton. Sex-ay!
I'm going to hang it in my office next to my certificate from The French Pastry School.
*Extra credit for naming the Broadway show this song title comes from.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Three Things You Didn't Know About Me
- I can make a three-leafed clover with my tongue.
- This guy and his family lived down the street from us when I was a tween. I got off easier than many of his victims.
- I tear up at elementary school talent shows, whether I have a kid performing or not. (I pretend it's allergies.)
Your turn! Use the comments to tell me something I don't know about you.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Celebrity Sunday: Part One of a Possibly-Recurring Series on My Close Encounters with Celebrities
When I was a very young and naive 19, I moved to Manhattan to be an actress. I was trying to put some distance between myself and a difficult freshman year at U.Penn, and what started as a summer fling in an Upper West Side sublet turned into a two year sojourn of auditioning, group therapy, dance classes, and occasional theatre work.
Most of my celebrity encounters were a direct result of waiting tables at Tavern on the Green, but my favorite celebrity story unfolds as pure serendipity. I was living in my second apartment, still on the Upper West -- a studio in a pre-war building with 12-foot ceilings and large, southern-facing windows. I was sharing with a ghastly roommate (British, blonde, thin and fashionable) who seemed to make it a point to never be in the apartment, and thus I had a lot of alone time on my hands.
It was on one such Saturday evening that I decided to get the heck out of the apartment and find something to do. I walked down to Lincoln Center with twenty bucks in my pocket and no idea what I might find. (This was back when you could actually go to the theatre without taking out a second mortgage or selling a kidney to do so.) My twenty bucks was enough to get me a last-minute ticket to the Vivian Beaumont Theatre that night, so I plunked down my dough and took my seat for the revival production of "The House of Blue Leaves," starring John Mahoney, Swoozie Kurtz, and Christine Baranski. (This was in the mid-80s, and while these fine actors were well-established in the theatre community by then, none were really the household names that they have become through their respective television and film work.)
A few minutes after I sat down, another solo theatre-goer made her way to the seat next to me. We exchanged the usual cordial smiles as she got settled. After a few moments of arranging her belongings -- she seemed to have a lot of bags on her person -- my new row-mate said "Well. They've certainly renovated this theatre since I last acted here!" That got my attention, but I couldn't garner wit enough to reply much more than "Really?" "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "that whole area over there was completely different and they've changed the whole shape of the apron, there. But it's been years and years since I acted here."
She seemed in a chatty mood, so I asked whether she was still pursuing acting as a career. "Oh, yes, I'm on a TV show now. I live in California; I'm just here visiting." She named the show, and while I'd heard of it, I had grown up without a TV in the house and was completely unversed in pop culture. I confessed as much, and mentioned that I was an actress, as well -- in fact, I had just gotten cast in my first New York stage show (a misbegotten production of Webster's "The Duchess of Malfi," the less about which said, the better). I was feeling rather exuberant, though, and pressed one of the promotional fliers for the production into her hand and we quickly exchanged names as the house lights began to dim.
The production was brilliant, and my new pal and I were both entirely swept up in the experience. Being a rather ignorant and poorly-read aspiring actress, I had no idea what was coming at the end of the play. The climactic moment struck me dumb, and my row-mate was literally on the edge of her seat, gasping and clutching at her own throat as the John Mahoney we had loved and rooted for for the last two hours strangled his adorable, beloved, dotty wife Swoozie until she was dead.
Moments later, the lights were up and the applause was still echoing. My companion and I did not rush to collect ourselves, as the emotion of the play continued to work on us both. Finally, though, she collected her many bags and we both stirred ourselves toward the exit. "Well. Best of luck to you in your acting career," I extended. "To you, too," she smiled. She was quickly gone, and I slowly wandered the four blocks back to my apartment, still lost in the dream of the play.
When I returned, the answering machine was blinking (remember answering machines?). My mother had left me a message hours earlier, and I knew she'd fret if I didn't phone back that evening, regardless of the time. (The roommate, whose name I have honestly forgotten, was still nowhere to be seen.) I returned my mom's call, and gave her a brief run-down of my evening. I had gone to the theatre, amazing play, really terrific. Sat next to a woman who said she was an actress. Oh yes, she did tell me her name -- Julie something -- maybe Harris?
My mother nearly dropped the phone. Julie Harris? The Julie Harris?!!
Now, in my own defense! Though we got out a fair bit, my parents did not flood our lives with culture when we were growing up. It wasn't until I was out of the house that I started catching up on some of the wonderful classic movies that introduced me to some of Miss Harris's extraordinary body of work. But at the ignorant age of 19, I knew nothing, and my mother's embarrassment at that fact was acute enough to engulf us both. (How could she possibly have raised a daughter -- a theater-loving daughter, no less -- who didn't even know who Julie Harris was?! What on earth must she have thought when I -- gag -- wished her luck in her acting career? The woman has five Tony Awards, for god's sake! And on and on.)
Years later, when I had moved back to Philadelphia, an opportunity arose for me to -- in my own mind -- partially atone for my appalling former ignorance. Miss Harris was touring with "Driving Miss Daisy" and there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity. I bought my ticket and watched the show, and during intermission I sent a note backstage. It was written on one of my head shot postcards, and it said:
Miss Harris, after watching "The House of Blue Leaves" with you, it is a great pleasure to be once again sharing theatre space with you.
To this day I don't know whether she got the note, but I'd like to think it gave her a chuckle. Even if it was at my expense.
Most of my celebrity encounters were a direct result of waiting tables at Tavern on the Green, but my favorite celebrity story unfolds as pure serendipity. I was living in my second apartment, still on the Upper West -- a studio in a pre-war building with 12-foot ceilings and large, southern-facing windows. I was sharing with a ghastly roommate (British, blonde, thin and fashionable) who seemed to make it a point to never be in the apartment, and thus I had a lot of alone time on my hands.
It was on one such Saturday evening that I decided to get the heck out of the apartment and find something to do. I walked down to Lincoln Center with twenty bucks in my pocket and no idea what I might find. (This was back when you could actually go to the theatre without taking out a second mortgage or selling a kidney to do so.) My twenty bucks was enough to get me a last-minute ticket to the Vivian Beaumont Theatre that night, so I plunked down my dough and took my seat for the revival production of "The House of Blue Leaves," starring John Mahoney, Swoozie Kurtz, and Christine Baranski. (This was in the mid-80s, and while these fine actors were well-established in the theatre community by then, none were really the household names that they have become through their respective television and film work.)
A few minutes after I sat down, another solo theatre-goer made her way to the seat next to me. We exchanged the usual cordial smiles as she got settled. After a few moments of arranging her belongings -- she seemed to have a lot of bags on her person -- my new row-mate said "Well. They've certainly renovated this theatre since I last acted here!" That got my attention, but I couldn't garner wit enough to reply much more than "Really?" "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "that whole area over there was completely different and they've changed the whole shape of the apron, there. But it's been years and years since I acted here."
She seemed in a chatty mood, so I asked whether she was still pursuing acting as a career. "Oh, yes, I'm on a TV show now. I live in California; I'm just here visiting." She named the show, and while I'd heard of it, I had grown up without a TV in the house and was completely unversed in pop culture. I confessed as much, and mentioned that I was an actress, as well -- in fact, I had just gotten cast in my first New York stage show (a misbegotten production of Webster's "The Duchess of Malfi," the less about which said, the better). I was feeling rather exuberant, though, and pressed one of the promotional fliers for the production into her hand and we quickly exchanged names as the house lights began to dim.
The production was brilliant, and my new pal and I were both entirely swept up in the experience. Being a rather ignorant and poorly-read aspiring actress, I had no idea what was coming at the end of the play. The climactic moment struck me dumb, and my row-mate was literally on the edge of her seat, gasping and clutching at her own throat as the John Mahoney we had loved and rooted for for the last two hours strangled his adorable, beloved, dotty wife Swoozie until she was dead.
Moments later, the lights were up and the applause was still echoing. My companion and I did not rush to collect ourselves, as the emotion of the play continued to work on us both. Finally, though, she collected her many bags and we both stirred ourselves toward the exit. "Well. Best of luck to you in your acting career," I extended. "To you, too," she smiled. She was quickly gone, and I slowly wandered the four blocks back to my apartment, still lost in the dream of the play.
When I returned, the answering machine was blinking (remember answering machines?). My mother had left me a message hours earlier, and I knew she'd fret if I didn't phone back that evening, regardless of the time. (The roommate, whose name I have honestly forgotten, was still nowhere to be seen.) I returned my mom's call, and gave her a brief run-down of my evening. I had gone to the theatre, amazing play, really terrific. Sat next to a woman who said she was an actress. Oh yes, she did tell me her name -- Julie something -- maybe Harris?
My mother nearly dropped the phone. Julie Harris? The Julie Harris?!!
Now, in my own defense! Though we got out a fair bit, my parents did not flood our lives with culture when we were growing up. It wasn't until I was out of the house that I started catching up on some of the wonderful classic movies that introduced me to some of Miss Harris's extraordinary body of work. But at the ignorant age of 19, I knew nothing, and my mother's embarrassment at that fact was acute enough to engulf us both. (How could she possibly have raised a daughter -- a theater-loving daughter, no less -- who didn't even know who Julie Harris was?! What on earth must she have thought when I -- gag -- wished her luck in her acting career? The woman has five Tony Awards, for god's sake! And on and on.)
Years later, when I had moved back to Philadelphia, an opportunity arose for me to -- in my own mind -- partially atone for my appalling former ignorance. Miss Harris was touring with "Driving Miss Daisy" and there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity. I bought my ticket and watched the show, and during intermission I sent a note backstage. It was written on one of my head shot postcards, and it said:
Miss Harris, after watching "The House of Blue Leaves" with you, it is a great pleasure to be once again sharing theatre space with you.
To this day I don't know whether she got the note, but I'd like to think it gave her a chuckle. Even if it was at my expense.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
The Halloween Post
(So sue me, I'm a little behind schedule. But I'm still on track with NaBloPoMo, which I consider something of a miracle...)
The boys opted for Harry Potter-themed costumes this year. Can you tell who's Voldemort and who's the Dementor?
Theo very graciously allowed us to dress him as Underdog. He had a blast trick-or-treating, too.
And I was a pastry chef.
Michael stayed home to catch the hordes of trick-or-treaters while my boys and I stepped out. I wonder how many more years I'm going to get away with tagging along?
The boys opted for Harry Potter-themed costumes this year. Can you tell who's Voldemort and who's the Dementor?
Theo very graciously allowed us to dress him as Underdog. He had a blast trick-or-treating, too.
And I was a pastry chef.
Michael stayed home to catch the hordes of trick-or-treaters while my boys and I stepped out. I wonder how many more years I'm going to get away with tagging along?
Friday, November 2, 2007
An Affair
There is very little foreplay. "Get undressed and lie down." I feel disoriented, slightly off kilter. The rhythms are unfamiliar and I am suddenly uneasy. This is weird, I think. This might not be right.
But it is too late to change my mind. I am touched with hands that are insistent and demanding -- a far cry from the gentle easing that I have grown accustomed to. There is a roughness, an abruptness, that is simultaneously off-putting and intriguing. Let's see, I tell myself. Let's just see how this goes. Maybe a change will do me good.
I find I must give more instruction than I am used to or comfortable with. "Right here. No, there. Not so hard." I am shocked to realize the depth of my former complacency as the new demands placed on me crystalize. Before, how easily my needs had been anticipated and fulfilled, without a word passing between us. How comfortably ensconced and unchallenged I was, before.
Before my masseuse went on maternity leave and left me to the devices of her associate.
But it is too late to change my mind. I am touched with hands that are insistent and demanding -- a far cry from the gentle easing that I have grown accustomed to. There is a roughness, an abruptness, that is simultaneously off-putting and intriguing. Let's see, I tell myself. Let's just see how this goes. Maybe a change will do me good.
I find I must give more instruction than I am used to or comfortable with. "Right here. No, there. Not so hard." I am shocked to realize the depth of my former complacency as the new demands placed on me crystalize. Before, how easily my needs had been anticipated and fulfilled, without a word passing between us. How comfortably ensconced and unchallenged I was, before.
Before my masseuse went on maternity leave and left me to the devices of her associate.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Tree, Apple, Clunk
Motivated by the promise of extra credit from his Spanish teacher and clutching a xeroxed, hand-written recipe in his hand, this weekend Quinlan made his very first (and second) loaf of bread. Pan de Muerto, or Bread of the Dead, is a traditional Mexican bread that is baked during the Dia de los Muertos season. It is essentially a Challah that gets sprinkled with anise and cinnamon sugar before baking. Nothin' wrong with that.
Note the traditional crossed "bones" on top of the loaf.
The braiding on Loaf #2 was significantly more successful than the braiding on Loaf #1. Practice, practice, practice!
I am so proud of Quin -- he got his hands messy with separating eggs and kneading the dough, which a year ago would have been unthinkable to my sensory-integration-delayed boy. We've come a long way, baby.
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