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Patty Pan Mock Apple Pie

My good friend, Linda, provided this wonderful recipe. Try it!

Pie Filling:
5 to 6 or nice sized Patty Pan Squash
1/4 cup butter
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup to 1 cup sugar or sweetener (to taste. I use the full cup because I like things sweet)
2 tbls honey (optional)
Enough water to help to "steam" the squash before adding the other ingredients.

Crisp Topping:
1 cup almond flour
1 cup oatmeal
1 stick melted butter
1/2 cup sugar or sweetener
1 tsp baking powder
Cinnamon and/or Apple Pie Spice to taste

Directions:
Peel, seed and slice the patty pan into slices that look like thin apple slices.
In large frying pan add patty pan and enough water to half way cover the squash, cover and simmer until squash starts to get soft. Add water if needed until the squash starts to get soft. but make sure you leave some water in the pan, about 1/2 cups worth, when squash is soft make the sauce.
Add melted butter, vanilla, sugar or sweetener and honey (if using) to the pan and continue to cook on low heat until it starts to get browned and bubbly and thickens up. Add more water if the sauce starts to get too thick.
While this is cooking down, mix the almond flour, oatmeal, melted butter, sugar or sweetener, baking powder, and spices until a crumbly mixture forms. Add a little cream or water if you think it's too thick.

Once patty pan is cooked down and soft, and sauce is thickened put in a buttered or cooking sprayed pie pan, then add the crumble mixture on top. Spray with cooking spray and put in a 325 degree oven until bubbly and the crumble mixture on top getting golden.

Serve hot with ice cream or warm/cold with whipped cream topping of choice

My First Husband's Marinara Sauce

3.5 lbs. fresh tomatoes, cut and seeded (or 2 28 oz. cans of whole tomatoes)
1 very large white onion, minced
1 clove elephant garlic (or a whole bulb of regular garlic), minced
1/4 cup of oregano
1/4 cup of basil
1/4 to 1/2 cup of fresh parmesan cheese, finely grated or powdered
olive oil, enough to coat the bottom of a stew pot
salt & pepper
crushed red pepper flakes (1-2 tsp.)

Heat oil, add onion, let simmer until translucent. Add minced garlic until the point where it is almost turning brown. Dump in fresh tomatoes and bring to a boil. Lower heat and let simmer at a vigorous simmer until tomatoes begin to break down. Mash them as they do so. Once a sauce begins to form and reduce to a thicker consistency, add seasonings and continue to simmer. This process can take an hour or so. Be patient.
You can puree the sauce with an immersion blender if so desired. This is a marinara not spaghetti sauce, so it won't be thick and dense. It is light and lovely.

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Find out what I am writing about today on my blog, Gut Check, for the Erie Times-News. Click here.

Raw Vegan Hot Dogs

You need a dehydrator for this recipe.
Raw whole food hot dogs
Posted by snowdrop on Raw Freedom Community

Makes 6-8

1-1/2 c walnuts
¼ onion
¼ beet
½ carrot
2 clove garlic
2 T agave (to taste)
2 T soy sauce/tamari
2 t hickory smoke flavor
1 t marjoram
½ t celery seed
½ t salt
½ t smoked paprika
sprinkle cayenne pepper

Blend till smooth in food processor. Form dough into hot dog shapes on parchment and place on racks. Dehydrate 105 about 4 hrs. Flip onto grid dehydrate to the texture you like. (Another hr or so.) Roll lightly into shape. Serve warm.

Go meatless on Mondays

I grew up Catholic, so I am used to not eating meat on Fridays during Lent. Never a fish lover, I always cringed at the thought of fish sticks and tartar sauce--my mother's Friday dinner staple. Little did we Catholics know then that our simple act of abstaining from meat was having a fairly big impact on the environment.
   The production of meat at the agribusiness level takes it heavy toll on our environment. According to the Environmental Working Group, "if we Americans skipped meat and cheese just one day a week for a year, we’d cut carbon emissions as much as taking 7.6 million cars off the road would."
   That's pretty impressive. EWG is also launching it's Meatless Monday campaign, which I heartily endorse and have signed a pledge to fulfill. It's easy for me because I can count on one hand how many times a month we actually eat any type of meat.
   While I am not a card-carrying vegan, I am environmentally sensitive. And through the personal changes I have made to my own diet and my standard of living, I have to tell you, my health has improved exponentially. And when I say health, I mean the whole enchilada--body, mind and spirit.
If you want to take the pledge, click here.
   To sign up for my daily GoErie.com blog, click here.

Corn Penuche Fudge

2 cups packed brown sugar
1 cup evaporated milk
1 cup granulated sugar
2 tsp light corn syrup
1/4 tsp salt
2 tbsp butter
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 cups cooked corn

Combine the milk, sugars, salt, and corn syrup in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Stir until the sugars are dissolved. Insert a candy thermometer into the mixture. Continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the mixture reaches 234 degrees (soft-ball stage). Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the butter and corn kernels. Allow it to cool to room temperature. Once the candy is cool, stir in the vanilla and beat until the mixture lightens in color and is creamy. This is best accomplished with an electric mixer, but you can use a wooden spoon if necessary. Press into 8 by 8 inch baking dish, greased. Chill.

Ode to Cruciferous Vegetables

If it's all about texture, then who can hate cruciferous vegetables? I mean, who hate crunch? I hear a lot about how people loathe broccoli, cauliflower, radishes, bok choy. Poor brussel sprouts is a particular target for haters. If you don't have teeth, I get it. But most of us love something crunchy. Here are a few recipes to help self-proclaimed raw vegetable haters to come to the light side.

Chop Chop Cruciferous Slaw

Use all or some of the following:
cabbage
Red cabbage
broccoli
cauliflower
radishes
carrots
cucumbers
red and green bell peppers
celery
carrots
jicama
turnip

The trick is to chop the veggies up into very small, not quite minced, pieces, so that whomever is eating it can't distinguish the different vegetables--almost like a colesalaw. The add some or all of the following:

sunflower seeds
glazed nuts of any kind
raisins
grape tomatoes (sliced)
grapes (sliced)

Mix with your favorite coleslaw dressing. Or try Bobby Flay's recipe.

Broccoli Zucchini Hummus
(Thanks to

1 1/2 cups raw broccoli, chopped
1 1/2 cups raw zucchini, chopped
1/3 cup raw sesame tahini
2 tbsp nutritional yeast
1 tbsp organic mustard (totally optional)
1/2 tsp sea salt
1/2 tsp cumin
3 tbsp lemon juice
Freshly ground pepper

Place the veggies into your processor and process till finely chopped. Add remaining ingredients, and blend till smooth. This will mean stopping a few times to scrape If the mix is too thick add a thin stream of water or more lemon juice to thin it out.

An Ode to Cherries

This is the companion blog to my GoErie blog. It's cherry season and this little fruit packs an amazing nutritional punch. Here are some recipes to enjoy your fresh batch of this seasonal beauty.
Note: Use a melon baller to remove pits.

Cold Cherry Soup

1 pound cherries [any variety], stems and stones removed

2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest, optional
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
A pinch of ground cloves
1 Cup of milk/cream (I use alternative milk such as coconut milk or almond milk)
1 tsp. of vanilla

Puree the above ingredients. Chill before serving. Add sprig of mint leaf for garnish and some chopped cherries.

Cherry Smoothie

1 banana (or fruit of your choice)
1 cup cherries, frozen*
3/4 cup mixed berry juice
5 ice cubes
1/2 teaspoon stevia

Add the banana, cherries, berry juice, ice, and stevia into the blender in that order. Blend until smooth. Serves 1-2.
Frozen cherries can be made by de-pitting the cherries, placing them on parchment on a cookie sheet and putting them in a freezer until hard. Unused frozen cherries can be bagged and saved for the winter.

Basil Vinaigrette

Small garlic clove
1 cup packed basil leaves, coarsely chopped
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 1/2 tablespoons Champagne vinegar
Pinch of crushed red pepper
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 oz. fresh pamesan

Puree in blender until well mixed.

Cold Curried Sweet Tomato Soup

3 C of pureed tomatoes (or tomato juice)
2 T tomato paste
4 scallions, minced
1 t curry powder
2 T honey (to taste)
pinch of thyme
1 T lemon juice
1 t lemon rind
gound pepper and salt to taste
4-6 servings

Combine in blender and chill to combine flavors. Garnish with sour cream and parsley.

My Aha moment

It was 1989 and I got this idea stuck in my head that we should throw our parents an anniversary party. A big surprise bash. My mother loved parties and had more than hinted that with her 40th anniversary coming it, it would be the perfect opportunity to surprise them. The problem was that was 2 years away. But something told me to go for it.
   We put on the dog as she would have said. Created a complex strategy to surprise them and succeeded in throwing a wonderful party for her friends and family. Several  months later, she was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a form of blood cancer. We had no idea when we planned the party that she was ill. She died several weeks after her 39th wedding anniversary. She was 63. She never made it to her 40th.
    That was when it really hit home. I had trusted my instincts and my intuition. Since then, that has been my rule of thumb: Go with your gut. Even if it doesn't make sense. And many times, that means there is no time like the present. Interestingly enough, the theme of my parent's anniversary party was "The Best of Times of is Now."
   Check out the video.

Ever hear of "Furry Fandom"?

While I was busy honing my craft in Detroit last weekend, a large group of adults were convening in Pittsburgh to share their mutual love of dressing up like animals. Called Anthrocon, this convention of what are playfully called "furries" brings some 4500 people together who spend lots of money. Our 75 conferencees in Detroit pales in comparison. Clearly, more folks enjoy being sports mascots than do writing opinion columns for a living. "Anthro" is derived from the word anthropomorphic as in anthropomorphic animal. 
    Now I did not know that this convention was being hosted in Pittsburgh, until my niece who was visiting her beau in that fair city, told me. I knew furries existed because of an episode of CSI, but I thought it was a boutique fetish. It strikes me as ironic that at the time the furries were mulling around the Steel City, I was in the Motor City posing with Paws, the mascot for the Detroit Tigers (picture above).
   The appearance of Paws during one of our conference breaks spurred a conversation with another conference attendee, Stu Bykofsky of the Philadelphia Daily News, who said he had once donned the outfit of his home city's beloved Phanatic, the green potbellied furry thing that defies classification but is immensely popular. He explained how heavy, cumbersome and smelly the costume was. (Apparently, in the world of sports mascots, there are often several people who take turns assuming the role. It makes for a variety of aromas since the costumes are often very heavy and poorly ventilated.)
   Which leads to me to ponder how furries find comfort and pleasure in wearing them. Heck, I can't even wear a Halloween mask without having a panic attack. But that's me.
   So what is it that furries derive from packaging themselves in animal guises? Or perhaps the better question is: Is it anyone's place to criticize them or poke fun? From the looks of it, they hurt no one, in fact, they don't even speak when they are in character. They prefer exaggerated gesturing and miming as a means of communication.
   Wait a minute. That sounds exactly like a mascot. I guess Shakespeare was right. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet."

Detroit, Lowdown on Motown

This is the home of Motown. It's located in the city known as Motor City. It's also the place the Detroit Tigers call home, with a lavish stadium known as Comerica Park complete with massive concrete-cast tigers perched for the kill. It's the city that is desperately trying to change its image. We know a little about that in Erie, also being plagued with the stigma of a worn-out old Rustbelt town.
  I attended the National Society of Newspaper Columnists conference in Detroit. I was perky with anticipation because I have never been there and it is one of those brick and mortar American cities, like Chicago, that I wanted to explore. Detroit is where my husband worked and lived for the decade of the 80s, leaving with a hearty love of the gritty city and a Red Wings jersey.
   The stories I heard from him, however, were of a different time and a different town. Detroit had a population of 1.6 million when he worked there. The circulation of the Detroit News was 850,000. The Big Three auto manufacturers were fat, dumb and happy. And while there was always crime and always poverty, the robust health of the city overshadowed the bad. Those were its salad days. Today, Detroit has lost more than half its population, and is down to 700,000.
   It was an impressive four days. The tours that the coordinator and host of the event planned carried us past daunting Comerica Park to the stately Whitney Mansion for dinner, the breathtaking Detroit Institute of Arts, and a funky outdoor art project that spanned several city blocks known as the Heidelberg Project. We then entered the inner sanctum of Quicken Loans for an orchestrated tour and rallying speeches about the revival of the big D's downtown. Quicken has already purchased and is renovating a building and will import an additional 1600 employees. There was also a visit to the educational think tank for entrepreneurs and start ups, called Tech Town, Detroit’s research and technology park. It was a lot to see and a lot to absorb.
   And a lot of tap dancing. In the old days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, that was the phrase we broadcast reporters used to use to describe when someone we interviewed would avoid the question by blabbering on and on about something else. Reporters, by nature, are a cynical lot. It's an occupational hazard. At times during all the touring and speeches about how great Detroit is going to be again, I felt like I did when we were touring Cairo and our guide wanted us to look beyond the sewage, abject poverty and clear evidence of an oppressive regime and see all the pretty pyramids.
   To be fair, Detroit is a great city. There are some impressive attractions. Yes, it has block after block of empty and rundown buildings, systemic crime, poor schools, poverty and a list of crippling problems that will take more than just enthusiasm to fix. But I like the city. And I would have appreciated a more honest view, a holistic approach to our host town.   
   But in the long run, face it, it benefits Erie directly if Detroit can clean up its act. After all, we are currently the recipients of the worst of Detroit. Rtes. 80 and 90 have become the mule road for Detroit's exportation of drugs and thugs. Any positive change affected there is sure to have a spillover effect here.

Motown Lowdown

If Erie had a big brother, it would be Detroit. Coming from the same dysfunctional parental lineage as Erie--big industry--Detroit has suffered at the hands of its inconsistent parents. It was spoiled as a child and given everything it wanted with no real thought of the future and then was abruptly kicked out of the house and forced to live on its own.  Neglect, I am told, is even worse than abuse. Now an aging adult, it needs to look at itself with the insight that only comes with age, hard knocks and hopefully a little wisdom.
   Never having been there before, I was curious about this city that has one of those unshakeable bad reputations which folks who live there claim is just simply unfair. (Actually, I think the better word is stigma.) We in Erie know what that feels like.
   The plain truth is that Detroit, like Erie, has to find a better way to shed itself of the bad rep it has developed. Spending the last four days in the Motor City at a newspaper columnists conference, I have had a look at Detroit, not just from the eyes of those who "sponsored" this event, but from my own. My thoughts will be chronicled here in the next few days.

Blackberry basil martini, anyone?

This recipe comes from a friend and colleague, Marian Gagnon, a professor at Johnson & Wales in Rhode Island and film director with her own company, Goodnight Irene Productions. She and I met when she asked me to be in her documentary about Ida Lewis, the 19th century lighthouse keeper who saved 25 people. But that's another story.
  Marian makes a mean blackberry basil martini, the recipe of which she kindly shares here.

Blackberry-Basil Martini


Put several fresh leaves of basil into a shaker and muddle with a pestle. Add 4 or 5 fresh blackberries and muddle again. Add ice, a splash of simple syrup, two jiggers of quality vodka and shake vigorously.
Pour contents through the strainer of the shaker into a martini glass and pop in a few blackberries for good measure. Serve and enjoy. Celebrate herbs!

What's for dinner tonight?

One of the perks about the Westfield Farmer's Market is that the information table not only has everything you need to know about the region, it also provides recipes for the produce that you can purchase in season.
I am reprinting here the recipe that was featured this past weekend which inspired me to purchase the beautiful asparagus I found. It's genius marketing really.

Lemony Risotto with Asparagus and Shrimp

3 cups reduced sodium chicken or vegetable broth
2 cups water
3/4 lb. asparagus, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 small onion finely chopped
4 Tbl. butter
1 1/4 cups Arborio rice
1/4 cup dry white wine
3/4 lb. medium shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 Tbl. lemon zest
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
2 Tbl. parsley, chopped
fresh ground pepper

Bring broth and water to a boil in a medium saucepan.
Add asparagus and simmer, uncovered, until tender and transfer to ice bath.
Saute onion in butter until softened. Add rice and cook, stirring for about 1 minute.
Add wine and simmer, stirring until absorbed. Stir in 1/2 cup broth and stir until absorbed. Continue adding broth 1/2 cup at a time. Add until desired consistency...it should have consistency of thick soup. Stir in shrimp and cook for 2 to 30 minutes. Stir in asparagus, zest, remaining butter, Parmesan, parsley and pepper to taste.

My recipe for Lamb Curry

I am a big one for working with several recipes to create one that I like. Hence how this recipe came to be. I suggest you also play with the ingredients, adding more of what you like and lessening that which you don't. I wouldn't suggest adding more curry, however, as it has a tendency to make the dish a tad bitter, especially since its heated and when you heat spices, it releases the oils which makes them more powerful. Bon appetit!

Ground Lamb Curry with Vegetables

8-16 oz. ground lamb
2 large potatoes (peeled and diced into small cubes)
1 green pepper (diced or sliced thin)
1 red pepper (diced or sliced thin)
2 large carrots (sliced thin or diced small)
1 small onion, diced (Vidalia)
1 cup of frozen peas
1 small cooking onion
2 large cloves garlic
2 Tbl. pickled ginger or ginger root

Combine the following dry ingredients:
1 tsp turmeric
1 Tbl. Curry
1 tsp. cinnamon
¾ tsp salt
1 tsp. cumin
1 Tbl. brown sugar

½ cup vegetable broth (or more if necessary)
1 cup orange juice (or pineapple)
1 can of canned coconut milk (light preferred)
1 Tbl. oil (canola)

This is a two part process.

Part One: The curry sauce
1) Puree ginger, onion and garlic in food processor until liquid
2) Sauté mixture in heated oil in a large sauté pan or quart sized pot for about 3 minutes
3) Lower heat to medium and add the dry powdered mixture and the vegetable broth.
4) Stir and heat until bubbling.
5) Lower heat to simmer. Add the juice and coconut milk.
6) Bring to simmer for a minute or two until thickened to a soupy consistency.
7) Turn off heat.

Part Two: The meat and vegetables

1) Saute the ground lamb until half way cooked
2) Add carrots, potatoes and onions and let cook with meat until starting to soften.
3) Add peas and peppers. Let simmer until heated through.
A few minutes before you eat, heat the sauce and add the meat and vegetable mixture. Stir well and heat all the way through. Serve hot over rice (jasmine preferred). You can accompany this dish with sides of raisins, Spanish peanuts, coconut and chutney that can be sprinkled on top of the curry.

Leonard Pitts and I agree

I am on the same page with  syndicated columnist Leonard Pitts. Well, not literally. His column runs on the op-ed page and mine runs on the front page of the Lifestyles section. But when it comes to this whole issue of men in the public limelight exposing themselves to scandal by letting their nether bits rule, he and I are in agreement.
  As he points out in his most recent column, "men rule when it comes to sleaze in politics." This isn't meant to be a gender slur....but when was the last time a women in the political arena was caught with her pants down, so to speak?
  As Pitts points out, and I heartily agree, this isn't about morality, it's about judgement. And I will go one step further and conject that it's about another problem that seems to come hand-in-glove with being in the public spotlight: inflated ego and narcissism, which I believe is at the crux of this rash of cheating and outrageous behavior. These men believe, truly believe, that the rules of decorum do not apply to them. It's as if something switches off (or on) in their brains.
  When I covered politics at the state level I watched this happen to even the most innocent of the neophyte elected legislators. Over time, as they got comfortable in their offices and used to being courted by lobbyists and voters alike, they began to breathe rarefied air. That air inflated their egos and skewed their perspective, often times causing these otherwise straight-thinking men to make very stupid decisions.
   I guess the question to ask is, if Weiner or Edwards or Spitzer never ran for public office and just plodded through their lives like the rest of us average Joes, would they have fallen prey to their egos?

Is sexting cheating?

I was asked this question recently, and found myself baffled. Not by the question, but by the fact that I was asked it. Was this really a question? The answer seems about as obvious as wondering if wearing a habit denotes a person is a nun.
   This isn't about morality as much as it is about stupidity. Has the advancement in technology drained our brains of common sense? It kills me when someone blames advances in this arena for their complete lapse of judgment and goofball, juvenile behavior. Our cell phones' ability to instantaneously transmit digital photos and messages is not the problem.
   The problem lies within those who are dumb enough to believe that they can do whatever lame-brained thing they like and cross boundaries that used to be protected by decorum and manners--and dare I say it?--gentility. Some men, because most of the examples as of late are men, who for some reason have lost their minds, feel completely at ease and believe they are well within their rights to take photos of their nether-bits and send them to women.
   Imagine you go to your mailbox, pull out a packet, and stuffed inside are several photos of some man's groin. You call the police and file a complaint because clearly some pervert is on the loose.
  Or imagine walking down the street, and a man in a trench coat whips it open and flashes you. You scream, and call for the nearest cop to arrest him for indecent exposure.
   So why is it, all of a sudden, no longer an offense to expose yourself to someone? Does the medium make the act less onerous? I don't think so.
   The larger question isn't about whether or not sexting is cheating. It's about whether sexting should be legal, especially when the effects are just as upsetting and damaging as any other instance when a woman has to be subjected to lewd behavior against her will.

I need a commencement speech

(This was a column that originally ran this time last year when my son graduated high school.)

   The kids filling the seats of the Warner Theatre donning mortarboards and flowing gowns were the stars of the show. The pomp and circumstance was for them. The floral arrangements and diplomas were for them. And the keynote speeches were for them. As we all gathered and beamed with pride, wishing them high ideals and all the good life has to offer, we knew inherently, they are the future. It only made sense that on this milestone of graduation, they should be the recipients of all the wisdom-filled speeches laid out before them. 

   But after sitting through my son’s high school graduation, I have come to the conclusion that commencement addresses are largely wasted on the young. While these bright kids have their entire futures lying at their feet, how can they possibly grasp that? I suspect, like my son, many of them are looking about as far down the road as September when many of them will start college. The idea that their lives are being shaped by the decisions they are now making is just too immense to wrap their minds around. Most of them live solely in the moment, which is how it should be.

   I have yet to meet a teenager who doesn’t think he or she will live forever. I have yet to meet a teenager who doesn’t know everything. That, along with invincibility and shortsightedness, comes hand in glove with being young. As I listened to the keynote speakers that night, I couldn’t help but wonder if their words impacted those young, naive minds as much as they did mine.

    It dawned on me during his graduation that it’s not my son who needs a graduation speech; it’s me and my generation. Let’s face it. For some of us, the Golden Rule has lost its luster. We are the ones sitting in the audience who need to be reminded that life is a marathon, not a sprint. We are the ones who often lose site of the eventual successes guaranteed by hard work, turning the other cheek and taking the high road. We are the ones who doubt whether it will all work out in the end. For unlike our children, we are old enough to know we aren’t going to live forever. We realize all too well we are vulnerable. We are obsessed with the long term and refer often to this vague thing called the future. We have to struggle to stay in the present.

    Yes, we are the ones who need commencement speeches. They drape the tapestry of the bigger picture in front of us that sometimes gets lost by our own tunnel vision. They give perspective like our parents did, reminding us in adages and handy, bit-sized bits of wisdom that nothing is a bad as it seems.

   While the young are the ones who will eventually inherit the earth, the truth is we oldsters own it now. And as its stewards, we’re expected to troubleshoot its myriad problems. Given that hefty responsibility, where is our pep talk?  Check out my Erie Times-News blog.

Chasing Alvin

I hate chipmunks. I know that sounds horrible especially because they are considered to be the Justin Bieber of the varmint family--namely cute--but in my corner of the world, they are just like mice. For some reason this season, we have a proliferation of chipmunks, scampering around the yard, jumping into gutter downspouts, hiding in car engines, and setting up house in my garage. And just yesterday, one actually had the cheek to break into my house.
   Well, it's not really "breaking in" when someone leaves the door open. Which I did. My husband had pulled out of the driveway for his morning trek to work and I had left the door to the house open. Much to my surprise, a chipmunk raced into the house right in front of me as I walked back in. I screamed, of course. And then I chased him into the back bathroom and shut the door. Tight.
   Then like any good wife with the whim whams, I called my husband, who promptly turned the car around and headed back home to save me. Not one for killing animals, he instructed me to arm myself with a broom. He carefully opened the bathroom and chased the furry burglar out. The rodent raced down the hall right toward me. Screaming to beat the band, with one brave swoop, I swept him out of the open door with such gusto, he flew across the garage right into the driveway.
   I kissed my hero and off he went to work to bring home the bacon. As for Alvin and his cohorts, I live to face them another day. And you can rest assured, next time, I will be prepared.

Check out my Erie Times-News blog.

I'm still standing...

But looking through the obits yesterday, I realize quite a bunch of people were summoned upwards on Rapture Day. But it could quite possibly be that their numbers were up prior to the prophecy anyway. It may have already been in the cards.
   When 6 p.m. came and went on Saturday, I didn't notice anything different, except that Shackleford won the Preakness about a half hour later. Yes, he was the long shot. But beyond that, nothing visible. There was no shaking, no ominous sky, no voice from above, no floating souls or ethereal music. I have to admit, I was disappointed. I figured there would be some pageantry, even if the event-to-end-all-events didn't quite fully manifest.
   I was raised in a religion where certain pivotal events came along with faith-enhancing visuals: back-lit angel visitations, deafening floods, blackened skies with streams of heavenly light. No one spared the horses. And I like that in a religion. It adds some Hollywood, a la Cecil B. DeMille, if you will. Who wants to die without some special effects? There has to at least be a light. You know, the big glowing light we're all supposed to walk toward. I just don't know what I will do if there isn't a light. Talk about a let down.
   Well, we will never know if those who did happen to pass away on May 21, or any other day for that matter, were transported in red carpet style or not. Guess we'll just have to wait until it's our turn.

Check out my Erie Times-News blog.

Where will you be when rapture strikes?

I never thought I would spend my last hours in State College, Pennsylvania, home of Penn State University. I never even knew State College existed when I was a kid. And now, it would appear, it will be the last thing I see when God calls me home on Rapture Day.
   And why wouldn't he? I have done nothing wrong, not in the eyes of the law anyway. Sure there have been some missteps along the way, a couple of stupid knee-jerk decisions, a bunch of tiny sins that don't amount to a hill of beans. My life as it has progressed hasn't been saintly, but it hasn't been satanly either. Why not me?
   I wonder if I should be doing more to state my case. You know, market myself during these waning hours before the souls start drifting up to heaven. Make a pitch for myself, write a jingle, pray like a cloistered nun, or something. Not that I want to leave right not...I have a lot of unfinished business here. But according to the prophecy, what will be left here won't be so much fun. And I can't even handle this cold spring, much less global pestilence, famine and natural disasters. Plus, I have always wanted to float up into the sky, like a character in a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. An ethereal, transparent being fueled by light and superstition.
   But like everyone else, I will have to wait to see if I get called up. It will be easy to tell--just check this blog on Monday. I'll post an entry no matter where I am---I do, after all, have a smart phone.

A bittersweet anniversary

My mother died too young. 63 is too young. That was 21 years ago, as of 1:00 this afternoon. That fateful day, I found out she had died from my father, who called me and said, "Honey, I have the saddest news in the world." He and my brother and sister and had left her hospital room to get lunch, after being persuaded by the nurse. Apparently, minutes after they left, she passed. Clearly, it was her last journey and she wanted to take it alone.
   It was a humid day, oppressively hot and sticky. Not a typical May day in Connecticut. I remember floating through the halls of Yale-New Haven Hospital, dressed in crummy workout clothes, having taking the day off of work to stay home in the morning and go spend time with her in the afternoon to spell my siblings.
   I did spend time with her that afternoon. The staff let us spend as much time as we needed to sit with her lifeless body, which was still terribly bruised from all the abuse that only cancer can ravage on a person. It was a tough seven months for my mother, the consummate trooper.
   She could, in my brother's words, "eat pain." Not one to complain, my mother bare-knuckled it through the last days of her life, spaced out on morphine for most of it, barely lucid. The last day I saw her like her old self was Mother's Day, just two days before she died. She was sitting up and laughing, opening gifts and sharing her acid, hysterical sense of humor.
   I loved my mother very much, and while time does indeed heal most wounds to a point where you are able to live with them, there will always be an Irene-sized hole in the universe and in my heart where she once resided. I miss you, Mom.

A farming we will go

What's all this with the farm tour you've been doing on your other blog, you might be asking? Yes, I have been taking time to visit the small, independent farms in this part of the state. Why? Because I care about our food sources and believe in supporting those who provide for us locally.
   Let me answer your question with a question. Who doesn't love to go to a farmer's market or visit a country store stocked with all kinds of fresh foods and organic goodies?
   There is just something very wholesome about farms, even though the scents and sites can take some getting used to. I feel healthier when I am there. And interviewing the farmers is truly a breath of fresh air. You talk about getting back to basics. This is about as basic as life gets. Producing the food we eat. Who was it that said, control the food supply and you control the people.
   I turned my back on processed food decades ago. And that was without fully understanding just how damaging and potentially disease causing additives and chemicals are to our bodies--physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Reading about the players in agribusiness (like Monsanto) and their aggressive movement toward creating genetically modified food. The debate directly concerns you, though you may find that ignorance is bliss, which of course, it's not. Especially when you realize that much of what you are eating is making you sick.
   Health concerns and risking the control of the world's food supply by several, profit-driven corporations aside, there is another casualty in the way the industry of agriculture is going--the small farmers. And there are a lot of them in Pennsylvania, thank goodness. My attempt to visit as many as I can is my small effort to increase awareness and hopefully create a new habit for all of us, namely, the routine of spending our hard earned dollars on food that is grown in this region and therefore help those people who continue to do the back-breaking work that you and I personally do not want to do.

Non Sequiturs abound

Granted, I have been markedly under the weather for several days now. Something to do with this stomach virus running rampant through our human ranks. Perhaps I am a bit fuzzy in the head. I admit that. But is it really all me?
    "Uncle Mo has gastrointestinal illness," my husband announced from the kitchen while I was struggling to make the bed this morning, still woozy and somewhat drained from my own bout with that same illness.
    Who is Uncle Mo? I thought. Poor guy. I would wouldn't wish this on anyone, much less some distant family member of my husband. He repeated what he said, having not heard a response from me.
    Finally, I walked toward him and flatly asked, whom he was talking about. "A horse in the Kentucky Derby. Don't you remember? We were just talking about him," he said. No, we were not. This was another example of his use of non sequiturs.
    "Just" is a relative word. For my husband, "just" can apply to a period of time extending anywhere from minutes ago to sometime last year. Yes, we had been offhandedly discussing the race during a brief moment an hour before, when we were both reading the newspaper. I tend to half listen to these conversations because I lost my ability to do two things at once when I started the phase of my life sweetly known as "the change." I am lucky if I can focus on one thing for more than several minutes. I vaguely recalled him mentioning several names of horses, but honestly thought when he said Uncle Mo, he was referring to his uncle or a local restaurant whose owner had the stomach flu.
    Like my son, my husband has a tendency to have internal conversations in his head that he thinks everyone is privy to. So when these things pop out of his mouth with no prior prompting or transition, he wonders why I am not keeping up. He is honestly bewildered because to him it makes complete sense.
    Uncle Mo has a gastrointestinal illness. Now you know.

Check out my Erie Times-News blog.

If April showers bring May flowers, what do May showers bring? Floods.

The winter clothes were packed away and I planted basil in the outdoor planter outside the kitchen recently: Two acts meant to send a message to Mother Nature that I am through with this cold, obnoxious spring and ready for her milder, warmer twin sister to enter the scene.

   Other parts of this country are experiencing higher than average temperatures and even heat waves by Erie, Pennsylvania standards. We have yet to consistently top 50 degrees. And on the days we do, the infernal wet weather continues to rain on our parade, so to speak.

    As far as I am concerned, this all has to stop. Right now. Like a tantrumming child, I am stomping my feet. And if that doesn't work, well, I just might have to get tough and start some fist-balled, threats. Come on out, spring, you wimp. I dare you.

    When all else falls, time to give in and give up. I guess I just have to step back and reassess. It's only rain and cold, after all, not tornadoes and tsunamis. Sometimes I just need a little perspective in order to regain my gratitude. Spring always does come and like most things, it doesn't conform to my wishes or bend to my control. At least there is some green in all this gray.

   Check out my Erie Times-News blog.

God save the Queen

And the queen would be me. Yes, I do believe things have to change around this kingdom, especially in light of the recent strain of Anglophilia that is seems to be catching. Not one to be all the caught up in such things as castles and royalty--as I do believe the resources tied up in that fantasy, both financial and otherwise, would be better utilized to help with modern day catastrophes and global concerns--I do admit that there is something quite attractive about being queen.
   While I won't insist that anyone here in my tiny fiefdom (read: my husband) refer to me as "Your Royal Majesty" or even "Ma'am," after first reference, I have cottoned to the idea that I should not be spoken to until I initiate the conversation. This would completely eliminate a lot of useless prattle and if I had known about this years ago, it would have been very helpful in child rearing. Something oddly Puritanical about the whole notion.
   I also fancy the curtsy. Nothing elaborate, mind you. Simple, short and sweet, but please don't look me in the eyes. That would just belie your commoner roots. This I would like to make a practice for my guests and friends, every time I enter the room. Or nod, cough, gesture or laugh, for that matter. Curtsy on demand, so to speak. Good exercise for them as well.
   Finally, the subtleties of switching my purse from one wrist to the other to indicate the party's over is another regal practice I would like to employ, with modern day revisions of course. Now I don't own a purse that sits comfortably on my wrist without risking strain, so I would use my shoulder bag. Subjects would have to keep an eye out for this, so they would know when to vamoose. It would be a very tactful way to get them on their way so I could catch up on my essential beauty rest.
   Yes, there is something quite attractive about being queen, even if it is only for a day.

You are what you wear

If clothes make the man, then hats must make the woman. I love hats, but it's on the rare occasion that I scare up enough gumption to wear one. Watching the nuptials of William and Kate underscored my love of hats.
   While it is a uniquely human trait to be able to accessorize, animals have always innately understood the importance of preening, lest we forget the male peacock. I admit that when I am gussied up in my Sunday clothes, it makes me feel differently about myself. Even if the outfit is arguably not comfortable, it changes the way I view myself.  
   Hats have a more immediate impact on my self confidence. But getting there can be a tug of war with myself. The judgmental part of me argues that I do not have the right to wear a hat. "Who do you think you are calling attention to yourself like that?" This often silences my urge sufficiently. But once in a while, the bolder side emerges and takes things in hand. "Why not wear that hat, Missy?"
   Ultimately, my hope is that as I age and get a bit dodgy (as the Brits would say) I hope that my hidden side wins out and I become a veritable Bella Abzug.
   To read more on my Erie Times-News blog, click here.

Insectitudes

There is symbolism in all that surrounds us. Nothing new there. Native and indigenous people have known and worked with this for thousands of years. Animals and plants, flora and fauna are wrinkles of nature that can hold deeper meaning.
   Dragon flies have held special interest for me. When I was little, they would scare me because of their sheer size and my accompanying fear that they might bite me, or worse, carry me away. Of course, I now know they do not bite and are actually harbingers of what's to come for me. So in a sense, they have indeed carried me away.
   But dragon flies have intrigued many cultures and been the subject of their mythologies. Chinese believe they are a sign of happiness and harmony; to Native Americans a sign of happiness; the Japanese Samurai so respected them that they were adopted as their symbol of victory. Folklore has them stitching up wounds on snakes, being able to sense bad souls from good, and being sent directly from Satan himself to create bedlam amongst humans.
   Perhaps most importantly, dragon flies symbolize change, from an internal, introspective perspective. This interpretation most likely comes from the fact that a dragon fly has 360 degree eyesight, which allows it to see everything around it, symbolically representing one's internal or third eye, which allows us humans to see all that is unseen as well.
   This particular dragon fly above, or darning needle as we used to call it when we were kids, alighted on my car antenna one day last summer when I was visiting my brother. In retrospect, it would prove to be a trip that changed our relationship forever.

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
          -- William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

To read my Erie Times-News blog, click on www.goerie.com/blogs/gutcheck. And for this week's column, click here. http://www.goerie.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20110428/LIFESTYLES0605/304289982/-1/LIFESTYLES

Less processing, the better

Nothing smacks of healthy more than granola. But lots of the packaged stuff that's out there is loaded with sugar and fats, not to mention lacking in freshness. Even the organic stuff can be sitting on the shelves for months, which isn't a good thing if you are looking for nutritional bang for your buck.
   Making granola in your own kitchen is a simple alternative to spending a lot for a little. All it takes is a bunch of uncooked oatmeal, whole and organic if you can get it, dried fruits such as raisins and currants (or apricots, dates, figs, whatever you love), nuts and seeds of your preference (soaked in water for a while to help invigorate them) and some sweetener such as agave (pretty easy to find in the baking aisle next to the honey) or reconstituted, pureed dates, which is what I used.
   Put everything in a large bowl. I let my dates soak in a cup or so of water and then pureed them in a food processor to make a thin, sweet liquid. I poured it on the mish-mosh and mixed well. Really well so that all of the ingredients are evenly distributed. I then let it set until all of the ingredients were lumpy wet and well saturated. (Add more water to get this consistency. You really can't screw this up.)
   Now I happen to have a dehydrator. I spread a think layer of the mixture on parchment and layered four sheets. And then I let it dry for about 24 hours until crunchy and breakable into chunks. If you don't have a dehydrator, you can use your oven set on the lowest setting closest to 115 degrees. (Mine does not go this low.) But I have used my toaster oven in a pinch. The whole point is to dry out the granola, not bake it. Baking it kills nutrients. And that's the whole point behind eating this stuff, isn't it?
   While eating foods that aren't processed appeals to me because it often means much less prep time before I eat, the reverse is true when it comes to creating more elaborate, palate-pleasing dishes. It often takes a lot longer than just throwing ingredients into a pan on the stove.
   But in the long run, it is worth it, because as they say, patience is a virtue. Bon appetit.
   

The sun sets on Pine Valley

I love my grandmother. She and my mother indoctrinated me into soaps in January of 1970, when a new show premiered called All My Children. Grandma was an avid fan of soap operas, and along with my mom, kept track of the comings and going in several fictitious towns, stemming back to the early days of General Hospital when Dr. Steve Hardy was a heart throb and many of the story lines unfolded in front of the nurse's station or while sipping endless cups of coffee in the kitchens of Port Charles' first families.
   While daytime dramas will still unfold in Port Charles, they will not in Pine Valley or Llanview. This is a blow that marks the end of an era. The remaining soaps are sure to follow, despite what the network executives parrot. Rumors of the end of All My Children and One Life to Live raced through the Internet months ago and were denied. The ax dropped shortly after that denial. And some of us have been floating ever since, unsure of what to make of the end that looms.
   There is no shame in admitting to being a fan of soap operas. We fans are a hearty and weather-beaten lot, having taken our licks over the years. Others love to poke fun at us who have loyally followed years of multiple story lines that can swing from the preposterous to the dull and boring.
   For those who deride soap fans and scoff at our fandom, I ask that you look inward. Who amongst you can cast the first stone? It is a the rare person who isn't a die hard fan of something, whether it be baseball, a reality television show, WNPR, Danielle Steele novels, coffee, chicken wings, hot baths, running, knitting, scrap booking....you get my drift. As my grandmother would say, different strokes for different folks.
   In daytime dramas, actors come and go, as do the plots that thicken and thin, but it's us, the fans, who have been the constant. The land of daytime drama has asked a lot of us and yes, we do complain but we remain steadfast. There are plenty of sports fans who can't claim that. We are expected to believe that people come back from the dead, enemies can actually find out they are biological siblings, mothers do forget to have given birth, children grow up into teens in less than a year, and almost everyone has an evil twin.
   For me, soap operas are entwined with my coming of age. I watched Secret Storm, Days of Our Lives, Young and the Restless, Ryan's Hope, Search for Tomorrow, GH, AMC and OLTL. I was glued to General Hospital in college, following Luke and Laura. But while I have kept a passing interest in those shows that weren't shut down like a cheap massage parlor, my attention has been on AMC, as someone who can claim veteran status for following it for 41 years.
   I am not ready to never return to Pine Valley again. It's times like these I want to turn to my grandmother and reiterate the words of a young Tara Martin. "Oh, Gran, why does life have to be so hard?"

Don't be scared by live food

Living raw--as in what we eat, not what we wear--has been a continual experiment in our kitchen. So much so that it is becoming a preferred way of life because it fits into our belief that we should live as close to the earth as possible. Simply. In other words, more is too much.
   We launched into a mostly raw diet last September, but thanks to this hard, long winter, a sad lack of commitment and a dearth of fresh and tasty vegetables, we fell back into old habits. As a rule, we don't eat meat, but we did eat a lot of cooked foods--hearty soups and vegetable bakes, all natural and gf (gluten free) but not raw.
   Even though the outdoor climate isn't cooperating, it's clear that the climate somewhere else is. Lots of organic, tempting-looking vegetables and fruits have magically appeared at the co-op and grocery stores. I say magically because I know damn well that they aren't what an environmentally-conscious person such as myself should be buying. They are "oily foods." (Because they have to be transported here either by truck, train, plane or cargo ship, their travel costs, both environmentally and economically, are exorbitant.)
   In fact, Barbara Kingsolver writes in her book, "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," that "a quick way to improve food-related fuel economy would be to buy a quart of motor oil and drink it." Her point is that "Americans consume so much oil, that if every American are just one meal of locally and organically raised meats and produce, we would reduce our country's oil consumption by over 1.1 million barrels (not gallons) every week." In order to appease my guilty conscience that I am buying out of season produce from places thousands of miles away, I tell myself they appear by magic. (More on this later, but suffice to say, we as a household make it point to purchase all our edibles from local sources, including dairy for my son when he is home from college.)
   Back to lunch. Since I wrote my initial article in Lake Erie Lifestyle March issue (click here and go to pages 12-13) about our foray into raw veganism, my husband has been fielding a lot of questions about it, since many of those at his workplace are fascinated but somewhat trepidatious. The photo above shows how easy it can be. You don't have to cook vegetables for them to be delicious, as any crudite tray will tell you.
   I marinated the raw veggies above in simple cold-pressed EVOO, added seasonings like fresh oregano, basil and parsley, some Himalayan crystal salt, and let set overnight. They soak up the marinade and create a nice, tender yet crisp snap when eaten. The dehydrated tomatoes were easier than that. Adding some apple cider vinegar to the leftover marinade, I sliced the tomatoes into thin slices, let them soak in the marinade for 10 minutes, then placed them in the dehydrator over night. The result is an amazingly delicious, crunchy-chewy burst of zesty tomato. Mix all the ingredients together with baby spinach, fresh romaine, some nuts and dried fruit if you like and you don't even need a dressing. We added them with homemade pesto and raw tomato sauce to some raw veggie rounds I made for some living pizzas.
   Eating live food doesn't have to frighten you. Just think of it as eating your vegetables and liking it.   

No place like home?

A room that has been dark for a thousand years can be illuminated by a single candle. Light overcomes dark every time. It's the foundation of the power of the positive, the strength of respect-based living and the belief that events unfold for a reason, whether logical or unknown.
   Yet despite the positives of being positive, unhappiness and frustration, anger to the point of rage, is an easy place to list toward; a welcoming hole in which to set our feet. Sometimes it's the most comfortable place to be because it's home. While home is a concept associated with nurturing, convivial family ties,and warmth of comfort, in truth, in can be none of that. Home is different for all of us, and can be a place of judgment, cold shoulders, erratic behavior fueled by addiction and even trauma.
   But it's still home, and therefore the place, both emotionally and psychologically, we are drawn to throughout our lives, whether we acknowledge it or not.
   As adults, even though we know better and are fully aware that we don't like chaos, drama, feeling sorry for ourselves, lashing out at others, justifying our wounds and generally wanting to blame life and those around us for our unhappiness, we can't help it. It's our return home. Home is the first place we knew and has that type of lasting impression. The echoes from our home-life dynamic can be heard in the whispers of the innermost part of ourselves.
   It's hard to know that home can be whatever we want it to be, despite how, where and with what dynamics we were raised. The power of the mind and spirit can override the conditioning of the past which can and does become the present. It starts with the simplest of things, really, something shared by everyone--the ability to be aware. It has become somewhat of an unnoticed and unheralded trait this century. But awareness of self, otherwise known as self reflection, separates man from the rest of the animal kingdom. It helps us gain perspective and knowledge. And with that, the knowingness that internal change is not only possible but certain. Stepping outside of our egos is tantamount to eyeballing our lives from an objective perspective and embracing the understanding that we do not have to live out our lives as the sum total of our past conditioning.
   Once we key into why we react the way we react, we can change it, and truly understand that if we always do what we always did, we always get what we always got. And that shift requires another commonly shared human trait--it's called guts.

Check out my new column: No use crying over powdered milk

Check it out:
http://www.goerie.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20110414/LIFESTYLES0605/304149984/-1/LIFESTYLES

And the temps, they go down and down

So I leave to go downstate for one day and what happens? The temperature on Lake Erie soars to 80 degrees yesterday. Of course! Luckily, we got back to town before nightfall and the weather shift took us so off guard, we decided to do a summertime thing: wash the car.
   Well, it's just another one of Spring's little teasers. The weather savvy amongst us know that jumping 40 degrees in one day is a cruel joke. We will be back to the 40s in a hours--today's oncoming storm will see to that.
   As the rain pours down the windows and the outer world looks like the more familiar version of spring that we are all accustomed to, my spirits remain high with the lingering brush of balmy breezes, the prickly crunch of new grass under my feet (yes, I took my shoes off) and the sun on my face.
   Yes, that one day, those few hours of summer erased the months of wet, cold, dare I say, harsh winter. And I am reminded of the verse from William Wordsworth poem.

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, 
of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.

Who moved my comfort zone?

Life does that to us, doesn't it? Just when we get settled into our comfort zone and have defined and accustomed ourselves to its boundaries--BANG! Something happens and the ground shifts. Our comfort zone is gone. We find ourselves rummaging around, trying to find it once again. Sometimes, the shift is a minor tremor and we regain our footing and rebuild it with some effort. But more often than not, the shift is colossal, like an internal earthquake, and no matter how furtively we look, nothing is familiar in the aftermath.
   As we pick through the debris, desperate to reconstruct the familiar, we are left with some emotional options especially when it dawns us that the familiar is gone forever. We can give up, accept defeat and just sit down in the demolished pile of the used-to-be, feel sorry for ourselves and bemoan the tragedy of losing what we have become accustomed to, and then slowly wither and die. Or we can be completely self consumed and develop the belief that this only happens to us and very few can understand what we are going through, thus underscoring our general belief that life is a them vs. us scenario and, dammit, we are not going to let them win. Of course, the result of that is usually stress-induced health problems, an overall bitter attitude and a constant belief that life is hard and it sucks.
   Or we can accept that maybe the whole point behind life is to have our comfort zones challenged and demolished on a fairly routine basis, and it's what we do to redefine, recreate, rebuild and thus morph into more flexible, pliant versions of ourselves that matters.
   And you know what? The end result is that by doing the latter, we find that given enough time and enough experiences, our comfort zone expands and breathes and, sooner or later, it encompasses everyone, everything and every variation of life around us. The whole world, no, the universe, becomes our comfort zone.

Dear Spring....

Where the hell are you? Not sure if you knew this, but this wretched little rodent in Punxsutawney claimed that you would be arriving around this time. Not that I put much stock in an animal as a predictor, but he does have a proven track record. NOT.
   As I watch the snow falling on the trees and ice forming on Lake Erie, I am reminded of, oh, I don't know--January. But interestingly, it's April. And just two weeks shy of Easter. How is the bunny going to scatter eggs and leave chocolate baskets in a blizzard?
   So, Spring, I don't like to threaten, but if you know what's good for you, you'll kick it in gear and get here by this weekend. I have some outdoor activities planned and don't want to wear a snowsuit.
   Yours very truly,
    An  Angry Fan

Check your ego at the door, kemosabe

My four brothers have taught me a lot. As a group, are they the funniest band of clever witted males I have ever known and like most siblings, have adopted a shared vocabulary that is testimony to their bond. A metro-sexual, in their vernacular, is known as "Mr. Fancy Pants;" one who is pumped up on his own testosterone is a "Hard Guy;" and someone who is self consumed and me-focused, is "Mr. Very Important." Of course, they use these terms to describe each other as well. And there are varying inflections that accompany each phrase, which I would have trouble mirroring here for you in mere words.
   Part of the benefit of having a lot of siblings is that, with or without intention, they keep everyone else's ego in check. It doesn't take much to be reduced to those childhood days when the playing field was much more equal and power was summed in who got to pick what television show we all would watch. I am thankful that our dynamic is a humorous one.  
   Hence when Mr. Very Important--that substantial ego that resides in all of us--takes the center stage, there is always someone within virtual elbow room to help point that out. But it requires seeking that ego check. And when Mr. VIP is in charge, he doesn't like to be corrected.
   There are some misconceptions about Mr. Very Important, alias, your ego. For instance, while ego is integrally tied to feelings of self importance and entitlement, it is not a measure of self esteem. Many get the two confused. Arrogant people for the most part do not enjoy intrinsic, unshakable self worth. Scratch the surface of a braggart and a bully and you will find insecurity. Conversely, someone who is modest and self effacing isn't necessarily a quivering nebbish, either. Those are often the characteristics of someone who has sufficiently pushed their egos aside to enjoy a much more peaceful existence of not having to prove themselves to anyone.
   Ego manifests itself in hurt feelings--I have found it's the main indicator that my ego is responding to a situation rather than my soul. The scenario goes something like this: Someone is critical of something I wrote. I react. I am hurt. I am angry. I am even mortally wounded, depending on how ego-based I am that day. But when I don't take it personally, when I remind myself that their reaction is completely their own and they are even entitled to it, well, I find myself in a very secure place. When my ego is in check and not front and center, I can hear the same criticism and respond much differently. Nine times out of ten, the end result is a win-win for both of us.
   It's true what they say--don't take anything personally. People go about doing what they do not in collusion to hurt us. There is no grand scheme afoot to undermine us. If you think that, it's your ego.
   Ego comes part and parcel with the human experience, but it isn't the entire package. It's lumped in there with emotions, physicality and mental thought--all aspects of our human selves that we sometimes erroneously believe is the sum total of who we are. Mr. Very Important has a way of edging out spirituality and soul and even love. What we are left with is a series of ego skirmishes, both small and colossal, that undermine the truth. And the truth is, we are in this together.

Play as good as you are, not as good as you can

Words of wisdom come from everywhere. My husband happens to be a very open conduit. When assessing the recent standings in Final Four and the surprising loss of a favored, stronger team to a lesser, weaker one, he said prophetically, "They played as good as they could, but not as good as they are."
   I was dumbstruck, because even though some could say this sounds like double speak, I beg to differ. I know exactly what he means.
   I know how to play as good as I can. And I know the difference between that and playing as good as I am. There is a big difference. And athletics is one arena that can best exemplify that. Though I have never played team sports, I do pay attention to them because my husband is a long time fan of most sports. This basketball tournament is always fascinating to watch because of the upsets. Teams that shouldn't be winning, do. And why? They awaken to who they are and tap into the capabilities of the players and the team synergy that must have needed a highly stressful, competitive environment in order to emerge.
   Runners will talk about "hitting the wall." I am fascinated by this concept, because it applies to life as well as physical endurance and accomplishment. When runners hit the wall in a marathon, their bodies are physically spent. Everything has caught up with them and they have no more to give. It's actually a physical condition--a depletion of glycogen which results in sudden exhaustion. But runners who are winners tell me that when the body fails, the mind prevails. (Or spirit or soul.) And that's when they run "as good as they are." Not as good as they can.
   When I write, I know the difference between writing as good as I can and as good as I am. I write as good as I can all the time. But the continual challenge is to go beyond that. To tap into the capability that lies within me--to knock down the wall of good enough and enter the world of personal best. There's divinity there. And I have felt it. It's not easy. Like the runner, it requires pushing past the point of frustration, personal exhaustion, the desire to collapse and give up. It means plumming deeper, not accepting fear or personal victimization as a viable reason for giving up. In most instances, it means letting go of ego, control and even logic. And just allowing. And doing, always doing. And when the dust settles and I read what is in front of me, I am awed. Because I did it. And I didn't think I could.
 

Good Sunday reading!

If you have nothing much to read to day, I have a grand suggestion. Click on the bottom link and check out the latest issue of Lake Erie Lifestyle. Yours truly has written three articles for this issue, one of which I am very proud of. It's a profile of Joe Travers, an Erie-born drummer who plays with Zappa Plays Zappa. Even if you're not a music fan, it's a great story about how this amazingly talented prodigy followed his instincts and honed his talent in what felt to me like a predestined path.
http://www.goerie.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2011303279995
For the entire edition and to check out my stories on "Paw-sitive Reinforcement" (yes, a dog training story) and Getting there is Half the Fun (different ways to travel other than by car), click on this link.
http://www.goerie.com/section/lel

Enjoy!

A week of sleeping dangerously

Day Five--The insomnia continues.
   There are two kinds of insomniacs...those who falls asleep and can't stay asleep, and those who can't fall asleep at all. I am both. But this week, after a long stretch of long, somnambulist bliss, I have suddenly suffered with the former type. I fall asleep, but then sometime between 2 and 3 a.m., I am awake.
   When I wrote the book, "The Insomniac's Manifesto," I did so after spending most of life awake. Back then, I was the kind of insomniac who jumped out of bed and immediately, in my dad's words, "made myself useful." That meant usually writing and researching on the computer. But if that didn't appeal to me, I would do housework. Lots of men's dress shirts got ironed between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m. Housework is less painful in the wee hours of daylight. I once washed the kitchen windows--inside and out.
   But those days are over. Now when I go through a bout of sleepless nights, I usually do one of two things: quietly watch early morning television or just lie there in bed, listening to my husband not snore. He is the quietest sleeper on the planet in the wee hours of the morning. I find myself checking several times to make sure he is still breathing. It's my job as an insomniac to make sure that everyone in the house is fine. When my son lived with us, I would always listen for him as well. Thankfully, he snores like an Amtrak train, so it's easy to know his heart is still beating.
   All in a night's work. But this week, while I was lying in vigil listening for sounds from my slumbering partner, I wrote my column in my head for next week. You'll have to check it out and see just what two hours of wakefulness can do to the creative brain.

My column appears Thursday

Please check out the new column this week. Go to my website at http://www.lenoreskomal.com/ and click on the "Links" tab and you will see the GoErie.com link. You can read the column and even check out my online video and accompanying blog which gives you a bit more about the column topic. Enjoy!

Another day in paradise

Now I get it. As a kid, I never did. Except for snowstorms and sunny, bright days--depending on which, it meant a fun day of sledding or splashing at the beach--I never paid much mind to what was going on with the weather. I don't remember it affecting me. Never understood my grandparents and parents lament about the dreariness of winter and the sogginess of spring. Who cared what was going on outside?
   Now I do. Like most of my friends, the first thing I do each morning is check on what the weather is going to do. These long transitional days of early spring now grind on my nerves like tinfoil on mercury fillings. The overhang of low-lying clouds and lack of warmth is just plain unattractive. And though I know how lovely Mother Nature is when lush with green and speckled with color, right now, she is looking pretty haggard and worn out. And if I let it, she can mirror how I feel.
   But enough of that. It's just so ironic how one's perceptions change the older one gets. Seeing the sun, though taken for granted on so many summer days, would be a miracle. I guess I'll just snuggle up to my space heater, keep a watchful eye from my window and be comforted by the truth that the sun is there. It's just hiding.

PS If you would be so kind, please click on the Facebook badge and hit like. It helps that page grow and I will be posting upcoming speaking events on it for the summer and fall.

My new website is up and running

Yes, as of 5:00 p.m. we are live. Well, the website is now official, which you most likely know if you are reading this right now. Thanks for stopping by. Drop a comment if you like and let me know how you are. Even better become a fan and follow me. And click on Facebook badge and hit the like button if you want to find out about my upcoming events on Facebook.
  Not that I am technologically savvy, but I am trying. Thanks for stopping by.

Spring, the biggest tease of all

My father used to say, "A sunny day doesn't make a summer." To take that literally, might I add it doesn't make a spring either?
   Warmer temperatures these days don't fool me. It's around this time of year that I am reminded of a young man that used to rent our attic back in the days when my then-husband and I were newlyweds and in need of offsetting the mortgage. Living in a large house in a Ivy League college town with a teaching hospital, we found no shortage of nice, brainy grad and medical students who wanted a little space in a quiet, safe neighborhood to dump their belongings. One of these young men was from Florida.
   After suffering through his first New England winter, he was more than ready to chuck his parka, don some shorts and ride to school on his bicycle. It was mid-March when the first tease of Spring erupted in unseasonably warm balmy breezes. Against all of my warnings, confident that he knew best and I was off my nut, he aired out his room by throwing open the windows and did a massive Spring cleaning. He packed away his down comforter, warm boots and heavy coat and fleeces. Tossing on his riding shorts and helmet, he lit off to school with sunshine on his back, assured that Spring had arrived.
   I felt sorry for him two days later, when the temperatures plunged back into the 30s and snow fell on Easter. Pride wouldn't allow him to admit he was freezing. Allowing him that, I left a few extra blankets at the attic door.
   Moral of the story? Reread the opening sentence.

Laziness, not necessity, is the mother of invention

Contrary to the popular saying, I have found in most cases, it has been my own laziness that has prompted me to create some new way of doing something. This has evidenced itself in my kitchen, when lacking several ingredients for a recipe, I have improvised because I simply didn't want to make the effort to get in my car and drive the two miles to the grocery story. I have also noticed this tendency when I sew, often using blunt needles or off-colored thread to mend pants and socks, arguing to myself that no one sees the hemline of a pair of pants, anyway.
   Today, I discovered that my inherent laziness could very well revolutionize the way I iron my clothes. Granted, ironing is the one domestic chore I don't despise, but in order to do it right, I have to get out my board, haul out all the necessities, including the iron, starch, spray bottle, stain remover and then clear the space to set up shop.
   Noticing the dress pants I pulled out my closet had an annoying, off-center crease and a couple of obvious wrinkles thanks in part to my overstuffed closet which collapses all my clothes into a small cramped space, I sighed. I didn't want to have to go through my ironing ordeal just for a 30 second job. Walking into the bathroom, I spied my flattening iron, plugged in and ready to roll. I use it to flatten my bangs, dutifully following instructions from my hairdresser and striving to be hip
   "Hmm. I bet I could use this to re-crease my pant legs," I thought, patting myself on the back for being so clever. And guess what? It worked. A few prolonged moments pinched in between the hot prods of the hair flattening iron, and viola! The old crinkles were pressed sharp and crisp. A rare genius moment for me. And it has got me thinking of how I can use it to iron my husband dress shirts.

Time change woes

Why is it everyone gets so tired when we have to change the clock forward? I can vouch for myself--I feel like someone let the air out of me today. Maybe it is in part because of the letdown from yesterday's talk. Even with the low turnout, I feel it was a success. Sadly, not many folks turned out to hear about our beloved Emma Lazarus. The discussion we all had afterward dissected the reasons, all speculative, of course. The time change, the lack of interest in life of Emma Lazarus, the lack of interest in me, the weather and overcast skies--you name it, we discussed it. We human love to know why. Why our expectations have not been met.
   But I went into the talk with no expectations. Let me correct myself. I went in with only one expectation that I would do my best to convey to whomever wanted to hear, the importance of this woman to history--our collective American history as well as her impact as a female, a poet and a Jew.
   Her story is actually everyone's story. Her short life (she died at 38) was a continual discovery into her own identity--coming to terms with the sometimes disparate aspects of her personhood in a time yet to break free from the oppressive reins of Victorianism.
   Hopefully there will be another opportunity for me to talk about her. It's one way I can contribute to making sure her memory helps secure her a place in our current conversation.  
  

If you've got nothing to do Sunday

Come to my next speaking engagement at the Temple Anshe Hesed at 930 Liberty St. in Erie, Pa. While it's snowing outside, it will be warm with intellectual and inspirational exchanges inside. The talk starts at 10:30 a.m., but make note that this is the spring forward day of Daylight's Savings Time, so that will be 9:30 a.m. our time.
   I am speaking on the topic of Emma Lazarus, who is best known for writing the sonnet the accompanied the Statue of Liberty, entitled "The New Colossus." The words, "give me your tired your poor" have been indelibly linked with the spirit of freedom that the statue has come to stand for, especially with the waves of immigration it welcomed for over a century. But Emma Lazarus was much more than just that sonnet. She was an intellectual who was befriended by Ralph Waldo Emerson and other aesthetes of her time, being heralded as one of the foremost poets of her ear. She sadly has been lost to history like so many other prominent women of her time, and many do not even know who she is today. She was also Jewish, and had to balance her multiple identities as a woman, American, Jews and poet--something she would be straddled with her entire life and finally made some sense of before she died.
  Hope to see you there!

Here's to Dr. Seuss

If you have a chance to read this week's column, which will be posted on Thursday at goerie.com, please do so. I delve into my own admiration of Dr. Seuss and share some of the reasons why his works have become classics. It's enormously difficult to become successful in the world of children's books. Just ask any aspiring writer and illustrator. Writing for children, especially for beginning readers, is so much more than just picking a clever theme, inventing a cute character and stringing together monosyllabic words for a few pages. It's an art, a science, and an academic challenge and one pioneered to a large degree by Theodor Seuss Geisel.
   All of that aside, Geisel also wrote with his heart as well as his head. His beliefs about the world and humanity translated into much of the work that has been published and tops the list of beloved children's classics.
  It was his birthday last week, and in homage, Read Across America day was named for him. It doesn't get much better than that.

Music soothes the savage beast and feeds the muse

There is a running joke around here that if it weren't for my son's participation in something known as District Chorus and Regional Chorus, I would have have written nothing of any worth in the past 10 years.
   When tackling book projects, I am fond of listening to music as a backdrop to my writing. No music connoisseur I, the stuff usually comes from whatever I have hanging around that seems to fit the nature and theme of the topic. But thanks to my son, I have drawn from his vocal performances to keep me on task.
   A musical kid, my son participated in these vocal opportunities during his years in high school. And as an ever generous mother, I purchased not just the laminated photos of the full choruses, but the accompanying CDs from the concerts as well.
   This has been standard operating procedure for me since my son started performing in public arenas with  the regional youth orchestra at the tender age of 10. But the one difference between me and perhaps other parents who paid their obligatory financial homage to the orchestra, I listened to the CDs. And when he transitioned into singing and the above state competitions, I became faithful to those musical tracks as well.
   But what sealed the deal was downloading those CDs into my computer's music library, which makes it easy to listen to the music by just clicking on an icon. My last two novels were written completely to the sounds created by these now-defunct, one-time choruses.
   If these kids only knew how they inspired me, well, I doubt they would believe it. I have become so familiar with these tracks because according to my music library, I have listened to some of them hundreds of times. I can pick out specific voices, including my son's.
   And at least just for a little while, I am transported back to another time, sitting in the audience before a stage of robed young choral singers who look and sound like angels.

The antithesis of writer's block

As all professional writers can attest, some projects, articles, essays, books, do write themselves. And those are wonderful, wonderful moments. It's as if everything just falls into place and the words flow from fingertip to keyboard without the normal frustration, self editing and nagging self judgement. I love it when this happens. It is the antithesis of writer's block.
  I have been experimenting with intention-setting. You know, setting a goal in my mind and then just leaving it alone to unfold. Now, when I come to a difficult story or article, column or other piece of work that needs to be done and I can't seem to get it to flow, I am now stating to myself and the universe, 'this will write itself." I did that this morning because a particular article with a looming deadline doesn't enthuse me. I have been hitting dead ends for sources and I just dislike the whole assignment. I have been doing this long enough to know that likes and dislikes don't have a place in my working world, so I have enough discipline to put that aside, and like a lawyer defending a scallywag, will devote myself and my skills to doing my best.
   Once I told my husband that I had determined this story would write itself, the dam broke and the flood of help met me. Two informative sources literally fell out of the sky, and helped shape this heretofore shapeless mess of a story. I hope against hope that I have discovered a new way of tackling this kind of writer's block.

White Winter Hymnal

One of the many perks of having kids is that you are forced to stay hip with not just pop culture but with music. And if your kid is anything like mine, it means lots and lots of music, since he is a musician. It's a perk because it appeals to my sense of wanting to stay connected to the generation that comes behind me and will ultimately shape the world I will live in. There is a group called Fleet Foxes, which even if you haven't listened to much since 1980, like me, you will no doubt enjoy them. The lyrics to my favorite song, White Winter Hymnal, are a bit cryptic, but the music and harmonies are uplifting. Thanks to youtube you can access it and feel inspired. This song reminds me of the happy memories from the last summer of my son's time living here at home, when he and his girlfriend were fixtures in our lives and there was so much laughter. It makes me smile just remembering them. Here's to memories.

That's what it's all about

I have a bumper sticker in my office that says, 'What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?" Like most kids, I played this game in the school yard and Mr. C's infamous gym class. It was considered a Simon Says style game, non-competitive in terms of athleticism and fun. I take issue with that last adjective. The hockey pokey isn't that much fun. Not nearly as much fun as "Mother May I," "Googly Eyes" or "Mother, mother may we cross the ocean." These were all games of my youth that I played with the sibs in our first house. Not sure if these were real games or something my older sister made up.

That toddling town

I read the lyrics of the Tony Bennett song before I wrote this, and I have to say, they're not the most inspired bit of writing I have read. But the tune is catchy.
   If you haven't been to Chicago, make it a point to go. I love that city. We didn't get a bad meal or meet an angry person the entire time we were there. A good friend of my family is originally from Chicago. Her family owned one of the city's largest department stores back in the 1940s. She was fond of referring to the Midwest as the place where civilized folk live. And I finally understand what she meant. My dad, being originally from Nebraska, had the same, respectful and kind demeanor as she did. And while my east coast cynicism used to be tweaked by it, I have to say I really miss it now that he is gone.
   It is heartwarming and refreshing to be steeped in a place where people meet your gaze when they walk by you on the street, wish you a good morning on the elevator and tell you to have a nice day just for spending time with them on a street corner. The last restaurant we ate at punctuated the experience for us. Every single server, including the manager and the bartender called out as we left, or passed by them, "Thanks so much for coming." I felt very welcomed.
   Makes me optimistic about civilization after all.

Chicago, Chicago

Who in the world would go to Chicago for a mini vacation in the dead of winter? People who live in a small city surrounded by snow and blustery wind who want to spend some time in a really big city surrounded by snow and blustery wind.
   The elements cease to matter when you are used to them. I guess that's why so many of us who are used to long, snowy, dreary winters have little compassion for those who have been hit hard this winter and can't seem to curb their over-the-top responses.
   When you live in a small city, sure there is a lot to do in comparison to those in rural areas and small towns. But it doesn't take long for those options to get fairly humdrum and boring. For instance, some friends of mine want to go out to dinner. It's always a challenge to come up with a great restaurant that we haven't been to 100 times already. Nothing really new comes our way other than new chain restaurants, which I avoid. I like to support the local business owners and restaurateurs.
   When it gets to be too much, a road trip to civilization, bright lights, big city is just the ticket. Chicago, here we come. I can't wait to eat my way through it.

Grace in confusion

Sometimes I get very frustrated when I feel as if nothing is happening. You know that limbo feeling when you feel you have done everything you can to create an end result and you don't see it. Well, it leaves me with a sense of confusion which often leads to frustration and then despair.
   I read something the other day that I have been pondering since I have recently found myself in a situation that has taxed my nervous system and left me feeling anxious and at a crossroads. Confusion can be a gift. I have been thinking about this ever since I read it. I had never viewed confusion as anything more than a punishment. The idea that it is a gift makes complete sense, since I do believe that there are opportunities and treasures to be found in everything we encounter in life. It comes down to opening the mind and soul and stepping outside of our perspective in order to see it and then embrace it.
   This small sentence, this sentiment and belief about confusion has lifted the timeline off my shoulders. As I was telling my husband over the weekend, I tend to be an end result person. It's not easy for me to experience and enjoy the process since I always feel like everything has to be done yesterday. As long as it's done. I habitually ignore how we got there. Which I think allows me to miss out on so much.
   So just for today, I am going to sit with my confusion, knowing that it allows me to stay here right now. At some point when I have all the information I need and the timing is right, I trust that I will know what to do. And I will have the courage and confidence to do it.
  

Weighing in on Bieber Fever

I have to get this off my chest. It's not that I am intolerant of teen heart throbs. While I was not a Davey Jones' fan back in the 1960s, I did have a crush on bandmate  and vocalist Micky Dolenz. But that's for another time.
   I initially learned of Justin Bieber from my husband's then 8-year old granddaughter. We went to visit over the holidays two years ago, and she was watching the high-pitched warbler on youtube. A pretty young thing with talent, I thought, with a whole lot of contrived thrown in. Little did I know, this cute kid would turn out to be a multimillion dollar property by the time he turned 16.
   Last I checked in with my husband's granddaughter, now at the wizened age of 10, she had dumped her crush on the kid. Apparently, her mother was none to found of his less-than-pure actions when it came to girls.
   Now that he has made a movie and put his entire life out there for the public to see, I have to weigh in. Is it just me, or does anyone else have a problem with a teenager claiming to have a life story? I have things in my fridge that are older than him.
   As for never say never, I am curious if he will be embracing that motto after the entertainment world turns its back on him as he slides out of puberty to not so cute adulthood. Will he be so convicted in his beliefs when life kicks the snot out of him? Working hard at making your dream come true has credibility when the person claiming it has some wrinkles. Let's face it. The music business is a fickle and not-so-kind mistress. I caution young Justin, if you think you won't find yourself disheartened and out of work, well, never say never.

Breaking down the wall

The sun came out and all is right in this snowy end of the world. Now it's time to chip away at the wall some more. Writers have various names for writer's block. I call it the wall because that's how it feels and looks to me when I am right upon it. Hitting the wall for runners and cyclists has a bit of different meaning. I did a story on long distance runners for a national magazine a long time ago, specifically marathoners, and they loved to talk about hitting the wall when they were almost at the end of their races. Hitting the wall is apparently caused by the depletion of glycogen in the runner's body, and results in extreme fatigue and feeling absolutely spent.
    Hitting the wall for this writer has nothing to do with glycogen. It's not as if I am writing feverishly for hours and then all of a sudden, I can barely move my fingers. No, hitting the wall happens right out of the starting gate. It's facing the monumental, seemingly overwhelming task of having to write something and automatically giving up. I suspect that writers could do well to adopt some of the discipline of marathoners. At least then, we could get out of our own way.
   

Hitting the wall

I have been sitting at my desk all morning, working on miscellaneous, unrelated stuff that really isn't what I can remotely call work. But justification is the almighty qualifier. I figured I shouldn't really work because I was waiting for the tow truck to arrive and pull my car out of the slick of snow in which it was stuck. Waiting for his arrival needs my full attention. Shouldn't get too involved in any writing project, such as my column which is due today, with the possibility of the tow truck arriving at any moment. Seems plausible to me.
   Ahh, such is the mind of a procrastinator. I can justify twiddling away the hours in such a believable manner that most people would nod in unison, agreeing with me. But somewhere in the crowd there is at least one nonbeliever. Someone who sees right through me. Actually, forget the crowd. That nonbeliever is me.
   The tow truck driver has come and gone, the car is back in the garage. Nothing much more I can throw up in the way of excuses now, save I need to finish this blog entry. Time is still crawling by and the page in the split screen in front of me with my byline on it still has nothing written underneath it. As my father was fond of saying, "it's not going to write itself." No, I must do that.
   Wait. First, I better check on the kitchen. Make sure there aren't any dishes in the sink or bits of food scraps that need to be swept up. I can't write knowing my house is mess, after all.

Cairo Update

I finally heard back, via email, from my former student who lives in Cairo. I have asked her to keep me updated. This is part of her email to me:
      "The government asked all the citizens to stay at home from 5 pm till 7 am the following day, so we don't go to work or move except for emergencies and this is boring. There wasn't any Internet connection for the last 5 days so I checked my email just now. I got married in May 2010 but I live in the same apartment at the same building where my parents live, i didn't want to be away from them as they are old aged.We are praying now that things improve in Egypt."
       While "bored" isn't the optimum way to spend her day, I am just relieved she isn't in danger or scared to death. Having spent time in Cairo, which is a huge city, I am stunned by the images I see in the media. My family and I were there just a few years ago, walked the streets, traveled through all the familiar parts of the city, and broke bread with those who live there. It has made this more than just a news story for me.