Tea with T.

Memories. Choose your hues.

The holidays are a most … interesting time, when it comes to family dynamics.  Typically, this season is filled with hope, wonder and magic – which, for me, means: “I hope nobody argues at the dinner table and I wonder if we’ll make it through the evening peacefully.  Boy, if we do, that will be some fancy magic.”  Sometimes, the turkey carcass isn’t the only carnage left behind at a holiday meal.

 

Growing up, I always wondered if other families went through similar holiday madness, hoping that it would be different when I grew up and wondering what magical concoction of the perfect food and sparkling guest list it would take to achieve that fantasy.  I’m now peeking over the bedsheets at half-a-century and I still don’t have answers.  Questioning others, I don’t believe anybody does.  Wherever two or more of you are gathered, chances are there will be those in the mix who make things … interesting.

 

As a collector of stories, I have heard so many about holiday meals ranging from the beautifully touching to the touched-by-the-crazy-stick type.  Yet, we’re bombarded with movies, music and media images that somehow make us believe that other people are living these incredible Pottery Barn/Ralph Lauren lives where nobody spills the gravy, the beans or their basket while wrapped in the bosom of their loved ones during the holidays.  Today, I stand on my tiny soapbox to say to all, “Ha!” – edited slightly, as you can’t fully appreciate the uproarious, milk-in-the-nose laughter here on the page.

 

One of the wonderful things about the memories we do collect through the holiday season is their elasticity.  You can gather a room full of people who grew up together and question them about their childhoods and everyone will remember theirs differently.  For example, I have a friend who grew up in the same household with her three siblings and to hear their individual stories, you would think they never lived together and could not have possibly shared the same set of parents (yet they did).  Their lives were colored by their own emotions, intellect and perception – like an Andy Warhol print of the same image repeated, but each panel a different color.

 

Spending my Thanksgiving this year with a party comprised of mostly octogenarians, I found it fascinating that their recollections of holidays past were filled with amber-tinted imagery of the Good Olde Days.  Not ashamed of my age, I’ll admit that I’m old enough to have been present at a handful of the events remembered and don’t have nearly the same images in my head that they do.  But, with advanced age comes increased wisdom and I’m smart enough to keep my trap shut and realize that someday I will probably soften the edges around my memories, too.

 

Even this year, our holiday dinner was immediately colored by those in attendance, despite drawing from the same paintbox of experience.  Nine of us were gathered around the table and each one of us came away with a completely distinctive view of the evening.  I can tell you that one was bored to tears, but loved the meal.  Another was engaged by the company, but didn’t care for what was on their plate one bit.  Yet another was charmed and delighted by it all, the company, the surroundings, the food and the mood.  One left with a full stomach, but an empty heart from unexpected hurt feelings and disappointment.  The other five, I’m sure, would admit that their own emotional cornucopias were overflowing, but their stories remain untold, until later, once they’ve had a chance to choose their memory hues.

Memories. Choose your hues.

The holidays are a most … interesting time, when it comes to family dynamics.  Typically, this season is filled with hope, wonder and magic – which, for me, means: “I hope nobody argues at the dinner table and I wonder if we’ll make it through the evening peacefully.  Boy, if we do, that will be some fancy magic.”  Sometimes, the turkey carcass isn’t the only carnage left behind at a holiday meal.

 

Growing up, I always wondered if other families went through similar holiday madness, hoping that it would be different when I grew up and wondering what magical concoction of the perfect food and sparkling guest list it would take to achieve that fantasy.  I’m now peeking over the bedsheets at half-a-century and I still don’t have answers.  Questioning others, I don’t believe anybody does.  Wherever two or more of you are gathered, chances are there will be those in the mix who make things … interesting.

 

As a collector of stories, I have heard so many about holiday meals ranging from the beautifully touching to the touched-by-the-crazy-stick type.  Yet, we’re bombarded with movies, music and media images that somehow make us believe that other people are living these incredible Pottery Barn/Ralph Lauren lives where nobody spills the gravy, the beans or their basket while wrapped in the bosom of their loved ones during the holidays.  Today, I stand on my tiny soapbox to say to all, “Ha!” – edited slightly, as you can’t fully appreciate the uproarious, milk-in-the-nose laughter here on the page.

 

One of the wonderful things about the memories we do collect through the holiday season is their elasticity.  You can gather a room full of people who grew up together and question them about their childhoods and everyone will remember theirs differently.  For example, I have a friend who grew up in the same household with her three siblings and to hear their individual stories, you would think they never lived together and could not have possibly shared the same set of parents (yet they did).  Their lives were colored by their own emotions, intellect and perception – like an Andy Warhol print of the same image repeated, but each panel a different color.

 

Spending my Thanksgiving this year with a party comprised of mostly octogenarians, I found it fascinating that their recollections of holidays past were filled with amber-tinted imagery of the Good Olde Days.  Not ashamed of my age, I’ll admit that I’m old enough to have been present at a handful of the events remembered and don’t have nearly the same images in my head that they do.  But, with advanced age comes increased wisdom and I’m smart enough to keep my trap shut and realize that someday I will probably soften the edges around my memories, too.

 

Even this year, our holiday dinner was immediately colored by those in attendance, despite drawing from the same paintbox of experience.  Nine of us were gathered around the table and each one of us came away with a completely distinctive view of the evening.  I can tell you that one was bored to tears, but loved the meal.  Another was engaged by the company, but didn’t care for what was on their plate one bit.  Yet another was charmed and delighted by it all, the company, the surroundings, the food and the mood.  One left with a full stomach, but an empty heart from unexpected hurt feelings and disappointment.  The other five, I’m sure, would admit that their own emotional cornucopias were overflowing, but their stories remain untold, until later, once they’ve had a chance to choose their memory hues.

Memories. Choose your hues.

The holidays are a most … interesting time, when it comes to family dynamics.  Typically, this season is filled with hope, wonder and magic – which, for me, means: “I hope nobody argues at the dinner table and I wonder if we’ll make it through the evening peacefully.  Boy, if we do, that will be some fancy magic.”  Sometimes, the turkey carcass isn’t the only carnage left behind at a holiday meal.

 

Growing up, I always wondered if other families went through similar holiday madness, hoping that it would be different when I grew up and wondering what magical concoction of the perfect food and sparkling guest list it would take to achieve that fantasy.  I’m now peeking over the bedsheets at half-a-century and I still don’t have answers.  Questioning others, I don’t believe anybody does.  Wherever two or more of you are gathered, chances are there will be those in the mix who make things … interesting.

 

As a collector of stories, I have heard so many about holiday meals ranging from the beautifully touching to the touched-by-the-crazy-stick type.  Yet, we’re bombarded with movies, music and media images that somehow make us believe that other people are living these incredible Pottery Barn/Ralph Lauren lives where nobody spills the gravy, the beans or their basket while wrapped in the bosom of their loved ones during the holidays.  Today, I stand on my tiny soapbox to say to all, “Ha!” – edited slightly, as you can’t fully appreciate the uproarious, milk-in-the-nose laughter here on the page.

 

One of the wonderful things about the memories we do collect through the holiday season is their elasticity.  You can gather a room full of people who grew up together and question them about their childhoods and everyone will remember theirs differently.  For example, I have a friend who grew up in the same household with her three siblings and to hear their individual stories, you would think they never lived together and could not have possibly shared the same set of parents (yet they did).  Their lives were colored by their own emotions, intellect and perception – like an Andy Warhol print of the same image repeated, but each panel a different color.

 

Spending my Thanksgiving this year with a party comprised of mostly octogenarians, I found it fascinating that their recollections of holidays past were filled with amber-tinted imagery of the Good Olde Days.  Not ashamed of my age, I’ll admit that I’m old enough to have been present at a handful of the events remembered and don’t have nearly the same images in my head that they do.  But, with advanced age comes increased wisdom and I’m smart enough to keep my trap shut and realize that someday I will probably soften the edges around my memories, too.

 

Even this year, our holiday dinner was immediately colored by those in attendance, despite drawing from the same paintbox of experience.  Nine of us were gathered around the table and each one of us came away with a completely distinctive view of the evening.  I can tell you that one was bored to tears, but loved the meal.  Another was engaged by the company, but didn’t care for what was on their plate one bit.  Yet another was charmed and delighted by it all, the company, the surroundings, the food and the mood.  One left with a full stomach, but an empty heart from unexpected hurt feelings and disappointment.  The other five, I’m sure, would admit that their own emotional cornucopias were overflowing, but their stories remain untold, until later, once they’ve had a chance to choose their memory hues.

Dry crust of bread + good company = Holiday!

One of the things I never thought I’d be thankful for, but time changes many things (including our minds and hearts), is my unconventional family, especially at Thanksgiving.  Having a somewhat wacky family means no true annual traditions and seeing that Norman Rockwell imagery of an American Thanksgiving a thousand and one times growing up, I disliked that.  A lot.  But over the years, I have come to appreciate my lifetime of unusual, but incredibly memorable, Turkey Days.

 

In 1993, when my oldest child was a year old, four of us – baby Shaina, her father, her Bubbe and I – all went to New York and ended up on Ellis Island, the landmark of the American immigration experience, on a frosty Thanksgiving morning.  Except for a couple of security guards, we were the lone inhabitants of the port that has had over 12 million people pass through the doors on their way to becoming a citizen.  When we arrived, the thermometer read 32 degrees and not many people had ventured out into the cold.  Those that did seemed to be huddled for warmth along the Macy’s parade route. 

Thinking of that day at Ellis Island gives me goosebumps, and not just at the thought of the cold (California pansy that I am).   I can still close my eyes and imagine standing alone on that historic spot, surrounded by the ghosts of thousands of people crammed into that small space, all with the heightened anticipation of finally coming to America.  It’s an overwhelming emotion.

 

That particular day ended with a terribly non-traditional meal of Turkey Osso Bucco in a sparse, dimly lit, oh-so-painfully-chic, Manhattan restaurant.  Whaddaday.

 

Back in my salad days, one of my best friends and I met up for Thanksgiving dinner at a goofy fish themed restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles.  We sat in a red leather banquette, two young women giggling madly because my friend had to help me count out what change I had brought to pay the bill.  I was a sometime back-up, studio singer/actress/waitress starving in L.A. and my monthly food budget was mostly for ramen noodles, not restaurant fare.  I literally had to break a piggy bank to fund that holiday meal.  To this day, it is still one of my most favorite Turkey/Fish Day memories.

 

Having only hosted a handful of dinners in my own home, one of the best ever had to be the year we invited the Shea-McFadden household to join us as we entertained our children’s honorary Grandmother “Anneliese”.  With the Irish household proudly contributing a long-standing traditional dish of mashed turnips from their family history to the menu, our German guest complained loudly (and unabashedly) about her disgust for turnips – having been forced to eat them during World War II, “digging them out the streets of Berlin.”  While I understood the painful memories that the side dish brought up for Anneliese, I was also thankful that my friends managed to live up to a great Gregory Peck quote about having “…that stubborn streak, of the Irish” because they went on eating their beloved roots, never seeming to mind the non-stop verbal abuse of their offering.

 

Despite decades of non-traditional holiday gatherings, one tradition has remained the same: the meal must consist of turkey – in some form or another, but usually just good old fashioned turkey.  Over the years, I have prepared turkey in various ovens here and there all around the map.  For a while, we would drive to Las Vegas to break bread with friends Rosa and Michael Tulane.  Michael was the man responsible for opening one of the first Las Vegas gym-to-the-stars on the top of the Riviera Hotel (at the time, the tallest building in Nevada) when it first opened in the 1950’s.  When Michael was young, he was an amazing chef and would cook for large parties in a moment’s notice, but as he got older he let the rest of us take over the kitchen duties, instead regaling those of us manning the mixers and ladles with stories of his days training the likes of Clark Gable, Errol Flynn, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Alan Ladd and Vera Krupp -- the woman who owned the famous 33.19 carat Krupp diamond before Liz Taylor did.  Michael would roll his eyes and wring his hands recalling how paranoid he was as Vera would “just dump it” on his desk as she made her way to the masseuse.

 

Sometimes I envy the people that have their annual November dinner like clockwork, with the same faces and flavors around the table and the familiar hugs of those they love.  It is fascinating to me to imagine the years and years of solid family history that seasons such a meal, making it all the more sweet and savory.  I could take a cheap shot here to mention our nuts and flakes … but, it’s too easy.

 

My family has no true north to steer by, when it comes to family holidays.  Strangely enough, the one concrete tradition we do have is an event that came to be about 20 or so years ago: the annual heated cranberry sauce cook-off.  Picture two women standing over the stove, loudly arguing about the most delicious way one can prepare cranberry sauce.  It doesn’t really matter what the ingredients are (for example, it could or could not have oranges), the main focus is on whether you make yours with or without sugar.  Their lines are firmly drawn and neither party will budge by adding or deleting this essential, or evil (depending on your mindset) element.  They then spend the entire meal comparing notes and taking votes on whose cranberries are tastiest.  Each year, invited guests diplomatically praise both women fairly evenly.

 

My children will grow up having a hodgepodge of holiday memories, each one different than the year before and I wonder how it will color their images of the All American experience.  I can only hope that in their hearts they are grateful for the spicy, turkey bouillabaisse-like celebration we manage to cook up for them every year and the even spicier company we are thankful to share it with.  It is ultimately, all about the bounty of the harvest, and a dry crust of bread shared with a friend is a feast, indeed.

Dry crust of bread + good company = Holiday!

One of the things I never thought I’d be thankful for, but time changes many things (including our minds and hearts), is my unconventional family, especially at Thanksgiving.  Having a somewhat wacky family means no true annual traditions and seeing that Norman Rockwell imagery of an American Thanksgiving a thousand and one times growing up, I disliked that.  A lot.  But over the years, I have come to appreciate my lifetime of unusual, but incredibly memorable, Turkey Days.

 

In 1993, when my oldest child was a year old, four of us – baby Shaina, her father, her Bubbe and I – all went to New York and ended up on Ellis Island, the landmark of the American immigration experience, on a frosty Thanksgiving morning.  Except for a couple of security guards, we were the lone inhabitants of the port that has had over 12 million people pass through the doors on their way to becoming a citizen.  When we arrived, the thermometer read 32 degrees and not many people had ventured out into the cold.  Those that did seemed to be huddled for warmth along the Macy’s parade route. 

Thinking of that day at Ellis Island gives me goosebumps, and not just at the thought of the cold (California pansy that I am).   I can still close my eyes and imagine standing alone on that historic spot, surrounded by the ghosts of thousands of people crammed into that small space, all with the heightened anticipation of finally coming to America.  It’s an overwhelming emotion.

 

That particular day ended with a terribly non-traditional meal of Turkey Osso Bucco in a sparse, dimly lit, oh-so-painfully-chic, Manhattan restaurant.  Whaddaday.

 

Back in my salad days, one of my best friends and I met up for Thanksgiving dinner at a goofy fish themed restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles.  We sat in a red leather banquette, two young women giggling madly because my friend had to help me count out what change I had brought to pay the bill.  I was a sometime back-up, studio singer/actress/waitress starving in L.A. and my monthly food budget was mostly for ramen noodles, not restaurant fare.  I literally had to break a piggy bank to fund that holiday meal.  To this day, it is still one of my most favorite Turkey/Fish Day memories.

 

Having only hosted a handful of dinners in my own home, one of the best ever had to be the year we invited the Shea-McFadden household to join us as we entertained our children’s honorary Grandmother “Anneliese”.  With the Irish household proudly contributing a long-standing traditional dish of mashed turnips from their family history to the menu, our German guest complained loudly (and unabashedly) about her disgust for turnips – having been forced to eat them during World War II, “digging them out the streets of Berlin.”  While I understood the painful memories that the side dish brought up for Anneliese, I was also thankful that my friends managed to live up to a great Gregory Peck quote about having “…that stubborn streak, of the Irish” because they went on eating their beloved roots, never seeming to mind the non-stop verbal abuse of their offering.

 

Despite decades of non-traditional holiday gatherings, one tradition has remained the same: the meal must consist of turkey – in some form or another, but usually just good old fashioned turkey.  Over the years, I have prepared turkey in various ovens here and there all around the map.  For a while, we would drive to Las Vegas to break bread with friends Rosa and Michael Tulane.  Michael was the man responsible for opening one of the first Las Vegas gym-to-the-stars on the top of the Riviera Hotel (at the time, the tallest building in Nevada) when it first opened in the 1950’s.  When Michael was young, he was an amazing chef and would cook for large parties in a moment’s notice, but as he got older he let the rest of us take over the kitchen duties, instead regaling those of us manning the mixers and ladles with stories of his days training the likes of Clark Gable, Errol Flynn, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Alan Ladd and Vera Krupp -- the woman who owned the famous 33.19 carat Krupp diamond before Liz Taylor did.  Michael would roll his eyes and wring his hands recalling how paranoid he was as Vera would “just dump it” on his desk as she made her way to the masseuse.

 

Sometimes I envy the people that have their annual November dinner like clockwork, with the same faces and flavors around the table and the familiar hugs of those they love.  It is fascinating to me to imagine the years and years of solid family history that seasons such a meal, making it all the more sweet and savory.  I could take a cheap shot here to mention our nuts and flakes … but, it’s too easy.

 

My family has no true north to steer by, when it comes to family holidays.  Strangely enough, the one concrete tradition we do have is an event that came to be about 20 or so years ago: the annual heated cranberry sauce cook-off.  Picture two women standing over the stove, loudly arguing about the most delicious way one can prepare cranberry sauce.  It doesn’t really matter what the ingredients are (for example, it could or could not have oranges), the main focus is on whether you make yours with or without sugar.  Their lines are firmly drawn and neither party will budge by adding or deleting this essential, or evil (depending on your mindset) element.  They then spend the entire meal comparing notes and taking votes on whose cranberries are tastiest.  Each year, invited guests diplomatically praise both women fairly evenly.

 

My children will grow up having a hodgepodge of holiday memories, each one different than the year before and I wonder how it will color their images of the All American experience.  I can only hope that in their hearts they are grateful for the spicy, turkey bouillabaisse-like celebration we manage to cook up for them every year and the even spicier company we are thankful to share it with.  It is ultimately, all about the bounty of the harvest, and a dry crust of bread shared with a friend is a feast, indeed.

Dry crust of bread + good company = Holiday!

One of the things I never thought I’d be thankful for, but time changes many things (including our minds and hearts), is my unconventional family, especially at Thanksgiving.  Having a somewhat wacky family means no true annual traditions and seeing that Norman Rockwell imagery of an American Thanksgiving a thousand and one times growing up, I disliked that.  A lot.  But over the years, I have come to appreciate my lifetime of unusual, but incredibly memorable, Turkey Days.

 

In 1993, when my oldest child was a year old, four of us – baby Shaina, her father, her Bubbe and I – all went to New York and ended up on Ellis Island, the landmark of the American immigration experience, on a frosty Thanksgiving morning.  Except for a couple of security guards, we were the lone inhabitants of the port that has had over 12 million people pass through the doors on their way to becoming a citizen.  When we arrived, the thermometer read 32 degrees and not many people had ventured out into the cold.  Those that did seemed to be huddled for warmth along the Macy’s parade route. 

Thinking of that day at Ellis Island gives me goosebumps, and not just at the thought of the cold (California pansy that I am).   I can still close my eyes and imagine standing alone on that historic spot, surrounded by the ghosts of thousands of people crammed into that small space, all with the heightened anticipation of finally coming to America.  It’s an overwhelming emotion.

 

That particular day ended with a terribly non-traditional meal of Turkey Osso Bucco in a sparse, dimly lit, oh-so-painfully-chic, Manhattan restaurant.  Whaddaday.

 

Back in my salad days, one of my best friends and I met up for Thanksgiving dinner at a goofy fish themed restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles.  We sat in a red leather banquette, two young women giggling madly because my friend had to help me count out what change I had brought to pay the bill.  I was a sometime back-up, studio singer/actress/waitress starving in L.A. and my monthly food budget was mostly for ramen noodles, not restaurant fare.  I literally had to break a piggy bank to fund that holiday meal.  To this day, it is still one of my most favorite Turkey/Fish Day memories.

 

Having only hosted a handful of dinners in my own home, one of the best ever had to be the year we invited the Shea-McFadden household to join us as we entertained our children’s honorary Grandmother “Anneliese”.  With the Irish household proudly contributing a long-standing traditional dish of mashed turnips from their family history to the menu, our German guest complained loudly (and unabashedly) about her disgust for turnips – having been forced to eat them during World War II, “digging them out the streets of Berlin.”  While I understood the painful memories that the side dish brought up for Anneliese, I was also thankful that my friends managed to live up to a great Gregory Peck quote about having “…that stubborn streak, of the Irish” because they went on eating their beloved roots, never seeming to mind the non-stop verbal abuse of their offering.

 

Despite decades of non-traditional holiday gatherings, one tradition has remained the same: the meal must consist of turkey – in some form or another, but usually just good old fashioned turkey.  Over the years, I have prepared turkey in various ovens here and there all around the map.  For a while, we would drive to Las Vegas to break bread with friends Rosa and Michael Tulane.  Michael was the man responsible for opening one of the first Las Vegas gym-to-the-stars on the top of the Riviera Hotel (at the time, the tallest building in Nevada) when it first opened in the 1950’s.  When Michael was young, he was an amazing chef and would cook for large parties in a moment’s notice, but as he got older he let the rest of us take over the kitchen duties, instead regaling those of us manning the mixers and ladles with stories of his days training the likes of Clark Gable, Errol Flynn, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Alan Ladd and Vera Krupp -- the woman who owned the famous 33.19 carat Krupp diamond before Liz Taylor did.  Michael would roll his eyes and wring his hands recalling how paranoid he was as Vera would “just dump it” on his desk as she made her way to the masseuse.

 

Sometimes I envy the people that have their annual November dinner like clockwork, with the same faces and flavors around the table and the familiar hugs of those they love.  It is fascinating to me to imagine the years and years of solid family history that seasons such a meal, making it all the more sweet and savory.  I could take a cheap shot here to mention our nuts and flakes … but, it’s too easy.

 

My family has no true north to steer by, when it comes to family holidays.  Strangely enough, the one concrete tradition we do have is an event that came to be about 20 or so years ago: the annual heated cranberry sauce cook-off.  Picture two women standing over the stove, loudly arguing about the most delicious way one can prepare cranberry sauce.  It doesn’t really matter what the ingredients are (for example, it could or could not have oranges), the main focus is on whether you make yours with or without sugar.  Their lines are firmly drawn and neither party will budge by adding or deleting this essential, or evil (depending on your mindset) element.  They then spend the entire meal comparing notes and taking votes on whose cranberries are tastiest.  Each year, invited guests diplomatically praise both women fairly evenly.

 

My children will grow up having a hodgepodge of holiday memories, each one different than the year before and I wonder how it will color their images of the All American experience.  I can only hope that in their hearts they are grateful for the spicy, turkey bouillabaisse-like celebration we manage to cook up for them every year and the even spicier company we are thankful to share it with.  It is ultimately, all about the bounty of the harvest, and a dry crust of bread shared with a friend is a feast, indeed.

Tie One on Day.

One of my all time favorite things in my kitchen is my collection of aprons.  Yup, aprons.  I have quite a selection from half aprons to full aprons and use them all.  Besides the sensible, logical aspects of an apron like -- keeping your clothes clean and having a socially acceptable place to wipe your damp hands … they’re cute.  Darn cute.

 

While most of my aprons have logos or patterns on them, I have one favorite apron that was made for me by a friend.  On it, there is a retro image of a woman holding a pie with a quote next to her, “I’ll share my pie with you, but that doesn’t make us friends.”  The gift was presented to me and while I chuckled, she reminded me that I was the one who said it (not for nothing does my license plate say SNARKEE).  She had to recall for me the story of how I’d uttered those words when, at a restaurant, total strangers talked us into sharing my birthday pie (that she’d baked for me) with them.  Not one of my prouder social moments, but I happen to realllly love my cherry pie.  Home baked cherry pie.  Crust from scratch cherry pie.  Once-a-year cherry pie.

 

Normally, I am not so stingy with baked goods.  Because, there is something very satisfying and nurturing about the entire process of baking and presenting baked goods to people.  Throughout the centuries, baked goods have symbolized warmth, sustenance and comfort and just about every culture has their own holiday treasure chests full of recipe cards to honor specials dates and times.  During everyday times of stress or sorrow, the oven is also put to work to produce soothing items to share with those in need.

 

On November 25th I’d like to invite you to join me in celebrating the 4th Annual National Tie One on Day.  This event was created by EllynAnne Geisel which encourages people to wrap up a loaf of bread, or baked good, in an apron and add a note of encouragement. Then “tie one on” -- your own apron, of course! -- to deliver the bundle to one in need of physical or spiritual sustenance, acknowledgment and a kind word.  It doesn’t matter whether you buy it or bake it.  It’s the thought that counts.  To learn more about Tie One on Day, visit Apron Memories: www.apronmemories.com

 

In addition to the cozy products that baking creates, it’s also hard work and messy.  I’m not a big fan of messy, but I have always been a fan of the apron.  In my first kitchen located in the tiniest apartment known to man, or in my case three petite women, there was no need for aprons.  If meals weren’t eaten out in restaurants they were consumed standing over the counter and usually something requiring a spoon: soup, ice cream, yogurt, oatmeal, frosting, cookie dough batter … chick food is spoon food.  We have a thing for spoons.  Go ahead, take an informal poll, you’ll see I’m right.  I have a lot of theories on this, so email me if you want to chat.

 

By the time I had my own place, the apron became a necessity.  In an equally tiny kitchen, I managed to produce some not-so-tiny meals for friends and neighbors, and the apron was more about me announcing, in a fun way, who the chief cook and bottle washer was in the five by five foot kitchenette of my apartment.

 

As a wife and mother, aprons still let everyone know who is really in charge of those appliances in there.  But, they’re also still very much about being cute.  Darn cute.  Old fashioned, maybe – but I haven’t met a man or woman yet who doesn’t find my aprons charming and sweet (especially the UPS man, he just gets all pink-cheeked and “Y-y-yes, m’am” when he shows up during the dinner hour).  Heck, I might be known for my occasional snarkiness, but if my time in an apron has the power to evoke a moment or two of charming and sweet … and cute.  I’ll take it.

 

Gentlemen, I’m not just all girly about my opinions on aprons either.  In fact, there’s nothing quite as cute as man in a bib apron getting down to the business of the barbecue (sparing those khakis from wayward sauce) or stirring the ridiculously difficult rice cereal treats for us (honestly, those things require about 40 lbs. of torque once the marshmallow is added).  The way to man’s heart might be through his stomach, but a woman worth her weight in salt will buckle at the knees at the sight of you in an apron.  Trust me.

 

Hope to see many of you ‘round the neighborhood on November 25th in your own aprons for the 4th Annual National Tie One on Day as you deliver your bundles of sustenance, acknowledgment and kind words.

 

P.S. -- If you’re looking for an apron to add a bit of charming and sweet to your kitchen, I’d like to encourage you to visit www.apronelegance.com and see what designer Rachel Hart has created or can create just for you.

Tie One on Day.

One of my all time favorite things in my kitchen is my collection of aprons.  Yup, aprons.  I have quite a selection from half aprons to full aprons and use them all.  Besides the sensible, logical aspects of an apron like -- keeping your clothes clean and having a socially acceptable place to wipe your damp hands … they’re cute.  Darn cute.

 

While most of my aprons have logos or patterns on them, I have one favorite apron that was made for me by a friend.  On it, there is a retro image of a woman holding a pie with a quote next to her, “I’ll share my pie with you, but that doesn’t make us friends.”  The gift was presented to me and while I chuckled, she reminded me that I was the one who said it (not for nothing does my license plate say SNARKEE).  She had to recall for me the story of how I’d uttered those words when, at a restaurant, total strangers talked us into sharing my birthday pie (that she’d baked for me) with them.  Not one of my prouder social moments, but I happen to realllly love my cherry pie.  Home baked cherry pie.  Crust from scratch cherry pie.  Once-a-year cherry pie.

 

Normally, I am not so stingy with baked goods.  Because, there is something very satisfying and nurturing about the entire process of baking and presenting baked goods to people.  Throughout the centuries, baked goods have symbolized warmth, sustenance and comfort and just about every culture has their own holiday treasure chests full of recipe cards to honor specials dates and times.  During everyday times of stress or sorrow, the oven is also put to work to produce soothing items to share with those in need.

 

On November 25th I’d like to invite you to join me in celebrating the 4th Annual National Tie One on Day.  This event was created by EllynAnne Geisel which encourages people to wrap up a loaf of bread, or baked good, in an apron and add a note of encouragement. Then “tie one on” -- your own apron, of course! -- to deliver the bundle to one in need of physical or spiritual sustenance, acknowledgment and a kind word.  It doesn’t matter whether you buy it or bake it.  It’s the thought that counts.  To learn more about Tie One on Day, visit Apron Memories: www.apronmemories.com

 

In addition to the cozy products that baking creates, it’s also hard work and messy.  I’m not a big fan of messy, but I have always been a fan of the apron.  In my first kitchen located in the tiniest apartment known to man, or in my case three petite women, there was no need for aprons.  If meals weren’t eaten out in restaurants they were consumed standing over the counter and usually something requiring a spoon: soup, ice cream, yogurt, oatmeal, frosting, cookie dough batter … chick food is spoon food.  We have a thing for spoons.  Go ahead, take an informal poll, you’ll see I’m right.  I have a lot of theories on this, so email me if you want to chat.

 

By the time I had my own place, the apron became a necessity.  In an equally tiny kitchen, I managed to produce some not-so-tiny meals for friends and neighbors, and the apron was more about me announcing, in a fun way, who the chief cook and bottle washer was in the five by five foot kitchenette of my apartment.

 

As a wife and mother, aprons still let everyone know who is really in charge of those appliances in there.  But, they’re also still very much about being cute.  Darn cute.  Old fashioned, maybe – but I haven’t met a man or woman yet who doesn’t find my aprons charming and sweet (especially the UPS man, he just gets all pink-cheeked and “Y-y-yes, m’am” when he shows up during the dinner hour).  Heck, I might be known for my occasional snarkiness, but if my time in an apron has the power to evoke a moment or two of charming and sweet … and cute.  I’ll take it.

 

Gentlemen, I’m not just all girly about my opinions on aprons either.  In fact, there’s nothing quite as cute as man in a bib apron getting down to the business of the barbecue (sparing those khakis from wayward sauce) or stirring the ridiculously difficult rice cereal treats for us (honestly, those things require about 40 lbs. of torque once the marshmallow is added).  The way to man’s heart might be through his stomach, but a woman worth her weight in salt will buckle at the knees at the sight of you in an apron.  Trust me.

 

Hope to see many of you ‘round the neighborhood on November 25th in your own aprons for the 4th Annual National Tie One on Day as you deliver your bundles of sustenance, acknowledgment and kind words.

 

P.S. -- If you’re looking for an apron to add a bit of charming and sweet to your kitchen, I’d like to encourage you to visit www.apronelegance.com and see what designer Rachel Hart has created or can create just for you.

Tie One on Day.

One of my all time favorite things in my kitchen is my collection of aprons.  Yup, aprons.  I have quite a selection from half aprons to full aprons and use them all.  Besides the sensible, logical aspects of an apron like -- keeping your clothes clean and having a socially acceptable place to wipe your damp hands … they’re cute.  Darn cute.

 

While most of my aprons have logos or patterns on them, I have one favorite apron that was made for me by a friend.  On it, there is a retro image of a woman holding a pie with a quote next to her, “I’ll share my pie with you, but that doesn’t make us friends.”  The gift was presented to me and while I chuckled, she reminded me that I was the one who said it (not for nothing does my license plate say SNARKEE).  She had to recall for me the story of how I’d uttered those words when, at a restaurant, total strangers talked us into sharing my birthday pie (that she’d baked for me) with them.  Not one of my prouder social moments, but I happen to realllly love my cherry pie.  Home baked cherry pie.  Crust from scratch cherry pie.  Once-a-year cherry pie.

 

Normally, I am not so stingy with baked goods.  Because, there is something very satisfying and nurturing about the entire process of baking and presenting baked goods to people.  Throughout the centuries, baked goods have symbolized warmth, sustenance and comfort and just about every culture has their own holiday treasure chests full of recipe cards to honor specials dates and times.  During everyday times of stress or sorrow, the oven is also put to work to produce soothing items to share with those in need.

 

On November 25th I’d like to invite you to join me in celebrating the 4th Annual National Tie One on Day.  This event was created by EllynAnne Geisel which encourages people to wrap up a loaf of bread, or baked good, in an apron and add a note of encouragement. Then “tie one on” -- your own apron, of course! -- to deliver the bundle to one in need of physical or spiritual sustenance, acknowledgment and a kind word.  It doesn’t matter whether you buy it or bake it.  It’s the thought that counts.  To learn more about Tie One on Day, visit Apron Memories: www.apronmemories.com

 

In addition to the cozy products that baking creates, it’s also hard work and messy.  I’m not a big fan of messy, but I have always been a fan of the apron.  In my first kitchen located in the tiniest apartment known to man, or in my case three petite women, there was no need for aprons.  If meals weren’t eaten out in restaurants they were consumed standing over the counter and usually something requiring a spoon: soup, ice cream, yogurt, oatmeal, frosting, cookie dough batter … chick food is spoon food.  We have a thing for spoons.  Go ahead, take an informal poll, you’ll see I’m right.  I have a lot of theories on this, so email me if you want to chat.

 

By the time I had my own place, the apron became a necessity.  In an equally tiny kitchen, I managed to produce some not-so-tiny meals for friends and neighbors, and the apron was more about me announcing, in a fun way, who the chief cook and bottle washer was in the five by five foot kitchenette of my apartment.

 

As a wife and mother, aprons still let everyone know who is really in charge of those appliances in there.  But, they’re also still very much about being cute.  Darn cute.  Old fashioned, maybe – but I haven’t met a man or woman yet who doesn’t find my aprons charming and sweet (especially the UPS man, he just gets all pink-cheeked and “Y-y-yes, m’am” when he shows up during the dinner hour).  Heck, I might be known for my occasional snarkiness, but if my time in an apron has the power to evoke a moment or two of charming and sweet … and cute.  I’ll take it.

 

Gentlemen, I’m not just all girly about my opinions on aprons either.  In fact, there’s nothing quite as cute as man in a bib apron getting down to the business of the barbecue (sparing those khakis from wayward sauce) or stirring the ridiculously difficult rice cereal treats for us (honestly, those things require about 40 lbs. of torque once the marshmallow is added).  The way to man’s heart might be through his stomach, but a woman worth her weight in salt will buckle at the knees at the sight of you in an apron.  Trust me.

 

Hope to see many of you ‘round the neighborhood on November 25th in your own aprons for the 4th Annual National Tie One on Day as you deliver your bundles of sustenance, acknowledgment and kind words.

 

P.S. -- If you’re looking for an apron to add a bit of charming and sweet to your kitchen, I’d like to encourage you to visit www.apronelegance.com and see what designer Rachel Hart has created or can create just for you.

The underbelly of me. Like it, or not.

Is it possible that we all have days when we think to ourselves, “Would anybody even like us – if they knew the real us?”

 

The answers, of course, are … sure we do and yes they would.  Everyone has someone they like or love despite their weird or quirky habits.  One of the best bumper stickers I ever saw? -- Everyone is Somebody Else’s Geek.  That logic, right there, was one reason I could embrace the goofy movie Napoleon Dynamite, the film had geek representation from every walk of life imaginable.  Nobody came away smelling like a rose.  More like rose-scented car freshener in a pizza delivery vehicle.

 

In high school, I can remember watching everyone drift off into their individual cliques and marveling how each group viewed other groups as weird, compared to their own group.  Marching Band may have played at football games, but they didn’t go out to pizza after with the team or the cheerleaders.  Academic-brainiacs may have bought tickets to watch the drama and choir kids perform in the musicals or talent shows, but they didn’t go to dances together.  I’m not even going to try and come up with some common ground that the 4H kids and druggies wouldn’t have agreed on, that just hurts my head.  According to all of the teenagers I speak to, nothing’s changed since the dawn of time.

 

One of the wonderful things about aging is the maturity and wisdom that eventually show up (dwindling hormones and shifting skin, not so much) and the human playing field is leveled as the sub-groups of youth fall away.  I’ve attended many a dinner party in the last few decades where the couples ‘round the table would have probably never shared a cafeteria bench back in the day, yet they’ve managed to come together (beauty & the beast or geek, cheerleader & the a/v squad leader or gearhead) and not only break bread, but often share offspring.  Whodathunk? 

 

Somehow, some way many out there manage to find someone who loves them despite the wacky way they brush their teeth, eat their meals (food mixed all together or not touching on the plate, at all) or animatedly talk to themselves when nobody is around (okay, maybe that last one is just me – but I like to think I’m kind of loveable, despite that strange peccadillo).

 

A while back I heard someone make the comment, “Maybe you wouldn’t like me once you got to really know me.”  If you picture that dialogue taking place on the doorstep of a creepy castle with thunder in the background or a roadside motel in the middle of nowhere – it’s weird, right?  But, this was just a guy talking to a girl over lunch.  Maybe he had self-esteem issues, but who among us hasn’t thought how negatively others would perceive us behind closed doors, or scarier still, if they stared directly into our very souls.

 

None of us is perfect.  None among us are spotless, germ-free or without fault.  Pointing out at over a sea of people I’m pretty sure you will not find a single individual completely pure of thought or heart.  Once upon a time I would have thought that a terrible shame, but I realize that the imperfections in our make-up are the very things that allow us to feel empathy, compassion and love for someone else.  If we have nicks, scars and eccentricities then maybe, just maybe others do, too.  If we take a chance at learning to look past, accept and maybe love the foibles of others then we are allowed to hope that they can do the same for us.

 

Thank goodness some among us eventually learn to tolerate idiosyncratic behavior in one another.  For example, me, I don’t snore, but when I’m extremely tired I snurfle.  Sort of a cross between a snuffle and a gurgle, like the sound sea monkeys probably make if you amplified them (and if they lived more than two days in a row to carry out that acoustic experiment).  It’s also been pointed out that I seem to have more than a few ADHD tendencies, getting easily distracted by random auditory noises or arbitrary thoughts that float by.  And heaven help you if you’re sitting too close when something tickles my funny bone.  In fact, 25 years ago a grown man dragged me out of a public movie theater because he thought I laughed too loudly at something that was uproariously funny (sorry Mr. Crankypants, but I now have the forum to point out that history has shown that 93% of the American audience agreed with me and that film is now on AFI’s top 100 funniest films).  I also happen to like mustard on watermelon – but far as I know, there are no laws against it and most gracious hostesses would turn a blind eye if they saw me eating it.

 

Life goes on and we all have things that make us odd and unbearable to some, yet charmingly quirky and quite possibly entertaining to others.  There is no such thing as a perfect human being (though that Dudley Moore fellow did come mighty close in my mind) and perhaps none of us are fit for proper company if we got down to brass tacks.  Maybe too, society has us brainwashed to believe that if we had minty fresh breath, perfect skin, Chiclet shaped & glowing white teeth, runway size 0 bodies or packing the 52 year old awesome abs of Dennis Quaid and the I.Q. of a Mensa engineer we would be worthy of adoration.  Truth is, some of the best-loved individuals out there are the ones who were (or are) different.  Show me two Marilyn Monroes, Elvis Presleys, Urkels or Ah-nolds.  What?  One of a kind you say?  So different, out of the ordinary, unusual and quirky!  Loved by some and reviled by others.

 

As for me, I don’t mind if someone thinks I’m different, quirky, unusual or not so easily compartmentalized into a group.  I feel that way about the people I meet, too.  There is a great pleasure in meeting and talking to people despite their past cliques or current groups.  The human heart and mind are like no other mechanisms on the planet and science has yet to replicate or fully understand how they work.  That’s part of the fun after all, getting to know whether we would like you, once we got to really know you.