Top Ten 2010

2 more hours till 2011 in Chicago.

The inner geriatric in me desperately wants to go to bed.

But ... I have vowed to stay awake till the ball drops on this New Year's Eve because .... 2011 marks the year I marry Peter. And I have vowed to start this year off with a bang.

6 oysters, three bunches of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, 1 glass of La Crema Chardonnay, two glasses of champagne,  four pieces of chocolate, and a half of a cigar later ...  I am fading. Full, buzzed, and drowsy. The zing pow that was supposed to commence the New Year has nearly expired.

Really it wasn't that glamorous, I mostly coughed the whole time.

So, what to do in these last two hours to get it up and running again? Top ten list baby! Power up the old blog, and reminisce about a year gone by. A wonderful, wonderful year gone by. Dick Clark, Anderson Cooper, Kathy Griffin, and Ryan Seacrest have nothing on the top ten that went down in, around and outside of Naperville, Illinois.

Drum roll please ...

#10. Best shopping experience ever: Vera Wang, the Judge, SGS, Peggy, Claire, a famished fiance, a patient bridal attendant and then my dress. Lunch at Spiaggia with an amazing glass of viognier followed. 

#9. Bro-Cal in So. Cal. Tri-tip, Brody, surfing, running on the 101, a beautiful wedding, and new friends that told Peter to pop the question already. Loved them! (Eek, the guest list is getting longer!)

#8. Tia and Tom from Las Vegas to NYC - from NASCAR trash to Ritz-Carlton class those were amazing weekends.

#7. Kristen and Meredith the showers, bachelorettes, and weddings. Although tightly confined to Scarlet O'Hara style dresses, best friends make for the best weddings!

#6. Brian Fest 2010 wasn't just an amazing time at Belmont Harbor, it was also the day Peter asked the Donald for my hand ... Donald asked the judge ... and amazingly, the Judge kept a secret for two months!

#5. I got a crush on my boyfriend all over again when he caught a big fish in Cape Cod in front of my eyes. Then I tried. I failed. And I beached myself and left the boys to fish. But I did eat all the potato-chip crusted fish that Peter caught all vacation long.

#4. Best Christmas ever in the city of steel - Love, laughter, family, feasting, football, and finding out I'd be an aunt two times over in 2011! 

#3. Gourmet dinners every night on West Street continued to be the best part of my day.

#2. I survived the Chicago Marathon on 10.10.10 in 3:50 in 86-degree weather and raised more than $6,000 for Ronald McDonald House Charities along the way.

#1. I had the best picnic ever, which turned into the best status update ever - Peter takes a knee, calls an audible and proposes to Lo on the most unassuming of days. Obviously I said yes.

Yes, it's been a fantastic 2010 and I have a feeling that 2011 is going to be even better!

Happy New Year!
Lo.

Meatloaf, Smeatloaf, Double Beatloaf

As a child asking, "What's for dinner"was always a tense question. Mostly, because it could merit any number of good or bad answers.

At some point during the day my Dad had decided on the dinner menu. At 6:00 PM, the exact moment when Extended Day officially closed, he would divulge this vital information. Hungry after a day of school, an afternoon of extracurriculars, and a half an hour too much of Jonathon-time, I would wait with baited breath for a response that meant something good was for dinner. Something like linguini with clam sauce, veal parmesan, goulash or chicken curry. And I would cringe when I heard the opposite - something bad like Italian sausage, leftovers or meatloaf.

Most of the car-rides home were dotted by eager salivary glands anticipating a great meal. But occasionally, we were each hit with our personal bombs. We all had our own least favorite dinners and boycotts to go along with them.

On meatloaf night, I sat at the table with a baked potato and a big pout. 

On lamb patty night, Erin would smother her plate and patty with mint jelly and still complain about the unavoidable dry nature of a lamb patty. 

If it was "big salad night" Adam would sigh and make himself a big sandwich to go along with it. 

And while we cheered for 'breakfast for dinner' night, my Mom stayed at her office and skipped dinner.

Although, I never really had a vote on the dinner selection until I was in high school, I did usually help my Dad in the kitchen and watch his technique. When out came the ketchup, mustard, ground beef, bread crumbs, bacon, eggs, and loaf-of-the-month secret ingredient, I knew it was doomsday. I went upstairs and contemplated what else I could eat to fill the void. 

I was in Randy Parker's camp growing up. Silently, I would chant, "Meatloaf, smeatloaf, double beatloaf, I hate meatloaf!"as everyone else cut themselves thick, bacon-clad servings and praise the newest iteration of the loaf. To me, there were so may things wrong with it though! It had that weird white congealing stuff around the edges and in the pan it came out of. The bacon on top of it had melted, not crisped, and now rested limply over it like a fatty blanket. The monochrome color palette of the loaf, baked beans, and baked potato wasn't fun or fanciful. When you cut into the loaf there was this mushy weird consistency. It was the worst and there was no amount of Heinz 51 that could improve it. What I really couldn't understand though, is how I was the only one that didn't love it. In fact, to this day, when Adam requests a meal from my Dad, it tends to be his meatloaf. 

More or less, Peter now has to ask the daunting question, "what's for dinner?" each night. I'm sure he has his favorites, but whenever I make something that's not on his top ten list, or turns out to be, dare I say, bad, he never boycotts. He is always appreciative or feigns appreciation, at least until I call him out on it. 

"This sucks doesn't it?"

"Yeah ... what happened?"

So ... this year, with Peter's inspiration, I decided I would cease being a boycotter. I would cease being an Italian sausage and meatloaf discriminator. And this summer I conquered my fear of Italian Sausage with pride (and the recipe that I chose to do it with even won one of Food and Wine's best fast recipe awards this year!)

This week, I sought to conquer my fear of Meatloaf - I sought to stop being its lone hater and embrace this staple of Americana. And I am proud to say, that I did it!

How? 

First, I decided that I was going to break out of the mold of ground meat and instead go with ground pork and veal. 

Second, I decided that I would use crusty day old bread instead of bread crumbs. 

Then, I substituted a red wine glaze for the bacon on top as a better cover-up for the white congealed stuff that is bound to emerge from baked meat. 

Then, I decided to use fresh herbs and milk instead of the ketchup and mustard mix that usually went into our meatloaf. 

Finally, on the side, I decided to mash up some yukon golds and toss a light salad. 

And I ate it.

It tasted like a good meatball without the sauce.

I liked it. 

I actually liked it!

So much so, that I went back for seconds.

AND ... I told Peter that we were saving the last three pieces for meatloaf sandwiches on leftover night. 

I texted my sister and told her that I had made and devoured meatloaf. She said, "You? Meatloaf?"

Yes ... me and meatloaf, happy little dinner companions. And here's the recipe that saved the day! 

Tonight ... I'm conquering fear number three - leftover night. But when one of the leftovers is twice cooked ribollita, there's really nothing to be scared of. (I am making Peter eat the meatloaf sandwich though.)

Lo. 

Keeping Christmas

Returning to school after Christmas was the worst. There were several years where I literally cried in bathroom stalls at St. Edmund's and Ellis because it was over. Gone were the Christmas lights, trees, carols, presents, and Santas smiling on street corners. It was back to the normal routine - getting up early, heading off to school, being picked up late by parents who were back to work and inherently back to being stressed out, only getting three cookies after dinner, and trying to find something else to look forward to in order to survive the cold, gray, winter weather that always appears colder and grayer sans sparkling lights. 

The sad feeling was particularly rough on Christmases that were particularly great - Those years when I looked especially good at 6:00 PM mass, we got amazing presents under the tree, there was absolutely no fighting, every last Barry gathered at our house for Christmas dinner, and we actually made it to the caroling part of the night. After those Christmases, I welled up in many stalls. 

Over the past couple years, the 'Christmas is over' lamentation didn't surface. I went back to school and back to work with facility. They were great Christmases mind you, but I had matured. I realized that I had been silly in years past, and that Christmas really wasn't the best thing ever. It was just another event on the calendar, and I had a lot of other things to look forward to throughout the year.

This year though, it hit. Today, going back to my normal routine of writing in Starbucks, working in my cube, and commuting in my Mini were rough. And yes, I let out a couple tears in the bathroom furthest away from my cubicle.  I thought I was over this. What happened? I realized what it was - this Christmas wasn't just a particularly great Christmas, it was the best one yet. 

It wasn't Santa, presents, or parties that made Christmas so special this year. It was family. 

My family -  old, new, immediate, extended, and soon-to-be family members gathering together at my parents home. 

My family having fun five days in a row without the help of electronics. 

My family without fight or feud cooking, baking, football playing, reading, sharing, giving, laughing through Christmas. 

It was a celebration of life and new beginnings; of past and future generations; of giving and receiving in absolute gratitude. The pace, people, prayers, and places were perfect. 

During Brunch

During and after Christmas Eve Mass

At Christmas Eve Dinner

On Christmas morning

While preparing the bird

While getting tackled

With Sydney

While juking out Erin and getting wide open

At Christmas dinner at the (big) kids table

Even doing dishes in the kitchen with the KP

There was magic every moment of every day that I was home in Pittsburgh this Christmas.

Near the end of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge promises that he "will keep Christmas in [his] heart and honor it all year." Though I don't need a Christmas intervention like Scrooge, I want to make the same promise. We get so excited for one day, and when that day is over, we shut off all that we have learned to embrace through the holiday. I can't be in my parents' warm, peaceful home throughout the year or give up my ironclad routine, but I can keep my family and friends; generosity and love; kindness and compassion; joy and exuberance close at heart and hand all year long. I can remember what's most important each and every day - to love and to keep that youthful Christmas spirit alive. 

Luckily, I have two really big things to look forward to this year, both of which pulled me right back out of my Christmas-is-over funk this evening, and that's two new Fischers. 2011 is going to be a great year.

Lo.      

Fight Club

The Notre Dame Women's Lacrosse team had a Fight Club.

I was not an official member.

I did have clear-the-bench status though. Meaning I agreed to have the Club's back if one of the members got into a fight on the field or in a bar. I argued for my admission - that I really was quite feisty. But the more rough and tumble players laughed and held my innate geriatric nature as their trump card for not letting me into the Club.

Basically it was all talk though - there was never really a fight to join. There were drunken screams, tears and punches thrown off the field once, but the Fight Club didn't get involved.

When we lost to the Northwestern behemoths in their gray unitard-like uniforms, and walked off their miserable field for the last time, the Fight Club disbanded. And over the years, its members lost much of their clout. I honestly think I could take a couple of them now.

Over the past year though, the group reunited. And instead of being partially pushed aside as a non-initiating, clear-the-bench-only member, I and the rest of the meeker players, reached full-fledged Fight Club status. The fight needed all of us.

We fought and fought all year long.
We fought harder than we had against the whole Big East Conference.
We fought against life being unfair.
We fought against pain.
We fought against cancer.
We fought for our best friend.
We fought for her mother.
We fought for life.

This weekend we walked off the field.
It was as cold, gray and miserable as that fateful day in Evanston.
It was as unfair as any loss caused by bad refereeing.
It was no one's fault.
In fact the team played harder than ever and Kassen defended the hell out of the meanest disease we had ever seen.

Today I don't want to believe we lost.
I don't want to believe that the most beautiful woman is gone.
All I can think though is that just as she was there to celebrate in the life of our team. We have to celebrate a woman who gave all of herself to those she loved.
Thank you Mrs. Delano for teaching us how to fight till the bitter end.
If there is anyone that should be in Fight Club, it's you.

A Couple Days in Provence

Last weekend Peter and I went to visit my Aunt, Uncle, and Abe Lincoln's top hat in Springfield, Illinois.

Peter agreed to drive the 180 miles through far from climate weather. As recompense and to express my gratitude, I agreed to read to him all the way there. I had picked a Year in Provence after sifting through my closet of half-completed books to find something that he would enjoy and that I could read aloud. Nothing too girly, nothing too literary, nothing with miniscule print.

Along the three-hour farm covered, windy, rainy, suicidal-truck ridden journey to Springfield, Peter and I were transported to the Provence country side. And to a degree it wasn't so far removed from the atmosphere we were experiencing. The book begins in January and takes the reader through the untold story of winter in Provence - the angry and persistent Mistral wind, the unexpected snow fall that paralyzes the town, the depression that infects its residents, and the peasant cuisine that provides enough comfort and warmth to survive the brutal weather.

The cuisine - the panacea. Every other page seemed to possess a recipe and each recipe seemed to possess an antidote for a Provencal problem.

When we arrived in Springfield, we had made it through April - we had made it through terrines and pates, boars and foxes, boulangeries and patisseries, Cotes du Rhones and Roses, cherries and melons - and we were excited to get out and walk off our subliminal sumptuous feasting. More importantly, we were excited to spend time with family and Illinois' greatest friend, Abraham Lincoln.

The official Abe museum was all it was cracked up to be and more. I was informed, engaged, and transported back into Lincoln's era with the help of wax figures that were so lifelike they had real human hair!

 After touring, we prayed. And after praying we ran through rain and sleet to enjoy my Aunt's cuisine - her perfect panacea after a long day. There was nothing like twice baked potatoes, pork roast, corn casserole, and cheesecake to warm the hearts, souls and stomachs of our little Midwestern quartet. Satisfied, revived, and ready to bear the elements again, Peter and I said our goodbyes and started to drive back.

The Mistral wind of Illinois came through on our drive back from Springfield and stayed throughout the next day converting more or less balmy December temperatures to single digits. We read on about the Mayles survival from the Provencal winter, preparation for Spring and arrival of the first tourists of the year. If they could make it to Spring, I knew we could make it too. But like them, we would need to employ our daily dinner ritual (without the icing) as our cure for the cold that characterizes this part of the country.

On Monday Peter works late and it happened that this Monday I got home early enough to make a meal that Peter Mayle and his friend Massot would have been proud of. I couldn't find a young enough fox to roast, so instead settled on chicken - roasted, combined with creamy chicken soup, carrots, peas and onions and topped with a flaky, buttery crust that perhaps wasn't as perfect as the Michelin-rated restaurants of Provence, but was better than any found in Naperville.

I poured a 2006 Georges du Boeuf Pouilly Fuisse - not quite Provence, but Burgundy, its northern neighbor beckoned. (And I didn't want to spend $60 on the desired Cotes Du Rhone on a Monday night.)

When my German tourist came through the door, frosted from the sub zero temperatures, tired from a long day, excited to see me, smiling at the pie that was cooling down, he said, "It's like we're in Provence." My thoughts exactly. Can we go for our honeymoon?

Lo.

Chicken Pot Pie for 2 adapted from Smitten Kitchen (who adapted it from Ina Garten who I LOVE!)
For the filling
1 bone-in, skin-on Chicken Breast
Olive oil
Salt and Pepper
2 1/2 cups of chicken stock
1 chicken bouillon cube
4 tablespoons butter
1 cup yellow onion chopped
3 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 cup diced carrots
3/4 cup frozen peas (thawed)
1/4 cup chopped parsley

For the pastry
1 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 stick cold unsalted butter diced
1/4 - 1/2 cup ice water
1 egg whisked with 1 tablespoon of butter for egg wash
Sea salt and black pepper

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Rub chicken breast with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast for 45 minutes.
Remove from oven, let cool, remove skin and chop into 1/2 inch pieces.

Prepare the pastry dough - combine flour, salt and baking powder. Cut in butter until the fat resembles small peas. (I use a pastry blender, but for all those lucky people with Kitchenaid mixers or Cuisinarts, you can use them.) Add the water tablespoon by tablespoon until the dough just starts sticking together. Remove from the bowl, knead about 5 times, wrap tightly and let rest in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. (dough can be made a day ahead as well - we actually had enough for two 2-person pies, so we had chicken pot pie two days in a row!)

In a medium sauce pan, heat chicken stock and dissolve bouillon cube.

In a large saute pan, melt butter and saute onion until transparent, about ten minutes. Add flour and stir constantly for three minutes over low heat. Add chicken stock and whisk constantly to prevent clumps from forming. Let simmer for one minute. Add cream, salt and pepper. Add chicken, carrots, peas, and parsley and mix well.

If you have pretty little petite casserole dishes, split the filling between two of them and reserve the rest for tomorrow's dinner. Split dough in half and save the rest for tomorrow too. Split dough in half again and roll out each piece to cover the casserole. Brush with egg wash, season with sea salt and pepper, and bake for one hour at 350 degrees.

Mmm Mmm Good.

No Icing on the Cake

Over the past seven days, I have attended five holiday parties - five feasts that included direct passage over meals of chicken with mushroom sauce and roasted new potatoes to the mouth-watering world of confections - five celebrations of the sweet and seasonal tastes of peppermint, chocolate and spice - and five occasions for sugar highs and lows associated with overboard holiday dessert-eating.

If you have a hereditary sweet tooth like I do, the reintroduction to the tastes of the sweeter side of the holidays are just plain wonderful. When I was growing up the first part of December meant:
It was time for Ms. Audrey to pass out the popcorn balls at Ballet Class. 
Circle up for candy canes from Ms. Teresa after Tap Class. 
Gather around the desert table with the most amazing minty fudge bars at the Spohler's holiday party.
Take a seat on the lower landing of the Haller's House in Chatham College with a plate that held way more cookies than my usual three-cookie allowance per evening.
Breeze through a four-piece box of Russel Stover chocolates from Edy on the last day she would see us before Christmas.
Recess as quickly as possible from the St. Edmund's pageant to be first in line for Mrs. McJunkin's brownies at the reception.
Bypass the paralegals passing as elves in the legal library made to look like Perry Mason's version of Santa Land to schmooze with name partners over an assortment of Italian biscotti at the annual Pietragallo, Bosick and Gordon party.
Store up on spice cake at the Ellis holiday dinner before my sister and the Ellis Glee Club harmonized to Christmas songs in every language but English at the Ellis holiday concert.
Sheer bliss.

For a sweet addict the reintroduction of December desserts is also a little scary ... especially as I creep toward the age of 30, my metabolism continues to slow down, and the cookies start stockpiling in a seasonal cookie-belly. And this December the wonderful reintroduction seemed richer and sweeter than years past. I rang in the season:
At the annual holiday dinner for the Board with three signature mini desserts.
Around a table at Gibson's and alongside my favorite Bank's loan officers with a massive slab of carrot cake and some Frango mints as a nightcap.
In Springfield, Illinois with perfect little pieces of cheesecake and perfect little cookies.
With a Capital Grill trifecta of oversized tiramisu, cheesecake and key lime pie with fellow employees.
And in Naperville with two double chocolate brownies topped with ice cream.

The sweet tooth hangover has officially set in. And with it ... pre-wedding paranoia of a belly filled and bloated by cookies, unable to fit into my smashing dress.

So ... I have decided, I'm not going to finish out the holiday season in syrupy style and I will officially be starting my New Year's resolution today. I will be putting myself on a wedding/tame the sweet tooth diet starting now.

For those of you about to get annoyed at me, it's not in the lineage of crash Las Vegas, Fiber One, Grapefruit, Cabbage Soup or Carb-evading diets of my past. It's very simple and it's very sustainable. My diet is called the "No Icing on the Cake" diet. Here is the premise: avoid the icing on the cake - meaning the extra sweet stuff - the third glasses of wine, second brownies, one last cookies, twist of the knob for a handful of M&Ms, Whole Foods samples, rolls on the side, variety of new and leftover edibles on the table behind Vicky's desk, candy bowls and above all icing on mini Starbucks scones that tend to lead my day down a path of dessert-addiction!

I was actually going to hit publish yesterday, but realized that I failed after eating peanut brittle on the table behind Vicky's desk in the morning and a second helping of chicken pot pie at dinner. This morning I'm ready to go though ... I avoided the mini scone, I'm focused on Vera, I'm convinced that the savory part of the meal can be better than the sweet, and I'm convinced that don't need an extra layer of me because I've got my love to keep me warm.

Lo.

Roll Call!

My favorite question in elementary school was, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

It was a question with limitless potential.

It was a question that promised me the conversation floor for a good ten to fifteen minutes.

And it was a question that never had the same answer.

Every six months or so I came up with new iterations of my response.

“When I grow up …” started with, "In high school I want to be a Calvary Camp counselor; in college I want to be a Notre Dame cheerleader; then I want to marry Prince Charming; and then I want to be a …

Movie Star

Model

Commander of the U.S. Army

Marine Biologist

Architect

Rockette

Archeologist

President of the United States

Ad Executive

Fashion Designer

Chef

Movie Star"

Today this question doesn’t have quite the same luster. I'm kind of grown up and haven't really converted any of my dream careers into reality. I never became a Calvary Camp counselor. Instead I committed social suicide when I didn’t make the staff and signed up to be THE awkward 17-year old camper. (16 is generally the cut-off.) I never became a Notre Dame cheerleader. Instead I was a Notre Dame lacrosse player with a physique that would only have served a purpose on the base of their pyramid. 

  

BUT ... I did lock down Prince Charming ... and I figure that is something to cheer about in a good old fashioned "R-O-W-D-I-E that's the way we spell rowdy" way. So I recruited the best looking squad around. And with the help of my Mom, Aunt Dee-Dee, Sister, best friend, soon-to-be sister in-law, mother in-law and grandmother in-law, found them some pretty hot uniforms. 

I may not ever be a film or stage actress, but my girls have always made me feel like a movie star. And with that ... here's their ROLL CALL!

My girls are sweet
They can't be beat
They're number one
They're tons of fun!
ROLL CALL!


Her name is Erin
Loved the dress she's wearin
Big sis and best friend
She'll be there till the end
Go Erin, Go Erin, Go Go Go Erin!


Her name is Claire
A child she's gonna bear
Sweetest future sis-in-law
Dog's the cutest I ever saw
Go Claire, Go Claire, Go Go Go Claire!


Her name is Meghan
Fighting in Afghanistan
Rub a dub dub
Three cousins in a tub
Go Meghan, Go Meghan, Go Go Go Meghan!


Her name is Laura
My roomie no more-a
She's my brother's wife
And my friend for life
Go Laura, Go Laura, Go Go Go Laura!


Her name's Rebecca
Rrrr Rrrr Rrrebecca
Friends since Pre-K
Til we're both gray
Go Rebecca, Go Rebecca, Go Go Go Rebecca!


Her name is Katy
One of my best mateys
So many special memories 
Like your turtle with the keys
Go Katy, Go Katy, Go Go Go Katy!


Her name is Nicole
Filled with heart and soul
Harassers of Mr. Walker
The ghost in the closet was a shocker
Go Nicole, Go Nicole, Go Go Go Nicole!


Her name is Kristen
She'll always listen
I never let her weights fall
But she failed the bear crawl 
Go Kristen, Go Kristen, Go Go Go Kristen!


Her name is Kassen
Full of compassion
She was the mom of 702
The perfect one of our crew
Go Kassen, Go Kassen, Go Go Go Kassen!


Her name is Mere
Three Muskateers
No one's as funny
She makes life sunny
Go Mere, Go Mere, Go Go Go Mere!


And just like that ... I'm a cheerleader!


Lo. 

All I Want For Christmas

It's just about St. Nick's day, which means it's just about time for me to email my Christmas list to Santa.

Making a list and sending it to the North Pole has always been one of the highlights of my year. The process is lengthy and involves tracking trends, evaluating pluses and deltas of big ticket items, and developing arguments for the more obscure and unique gifts, which I seem to have a knack for identifying.

Past Christmas lists have included: 

• Lee Press on Nails and Isotoner gloves when I was in Kindergarten (I was heavily influenced by hand models and marketing campaigns at an early age.)
• G.I. Joes during the Desert Storm War. 
• Pee-Wee, Chairy and the rest of the gang in his magical Playhouse until he "got weird" and my Dad put an end to my Saturday morning televiewing routine.
• Molly and pages 10-15 in the American Girl Catalog which lasted until I had every last accessory from Molly's collection and was able to dedicate an entire closet to Molly's room. 
• Items that would keep me up-to-date with my friends at Ellis like the original boxy black satin Kate Spade handbag, EB Pepper stacked crystal bracelets, Vera Bradley sleepover bags, a Northface backpack, and a blue Patagonia vest.
• THE Nokia cell phone which I received freshman year of college.
• Sports equipment like shaped skis, a PGC-quality tennis racquet, tennis whites, lacrosse gear, and layers of Under Armour to ensure that I looked the part no matter what sport I tackled.   
• Fashion in the form of dresses from my favorite boutiques, "it" handbags, dramatic jewelry, shoes, and gift certificates to my favorite lingerie store.  

I was less successful in converting a wish a list item to a present under the tree when I was very young. But over the years I learned some key tenets to making sure I was never disappointed on Christmas morning. They are:

1. Be on Brand - Meaning your brand. When I asked for Lee Press on Nails and a G.I. Joe before the age of eight, Santa was thrown off. What good little girl asks for those items? I got stick-on earrings and Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks instead. Disappointment.

2. Be specific - This was always Erin's downfall. I learned at an early age to ask for "the black sweater on the first table to the right when you walk into Gap Kids." Alternatively, Erin would ask for "sweaters." And she received every textured, clashing, bulky, fuzzy sweater from Kaufmann's, leading her to tear up year after year as she looked over at the understated black sweater that I so proudly displayed to my family.

3. Be realistic - I was never going to get a puppy in my stocking, so I didn't ask. A pound puppy was the perfect alternative. I was never going to get the Marc Jacobs handbag, so I went with Cole Hahn and to this day, I LOVE that bag, which Peter so fondly refers to as my suitcase.

As we hit December this week, I realized I hadn't even started thinking about my Christmas list. And no, it is not because I'm 28 years old and you aren't supposed to be making Christmas lists at this age. They are still totally appropriate in my family, or so I think. Instead I realized that everything I wanted for Christmas this year, already was given to me in good old fashion Miracle on 34th Street style.
I got ring.
I got a fiance.
I got a Christmas when my whole family will be together again.
What else can I ask for?
(Well, maybe a classic Burberry raincoat and a Chanel handbag, but sticking to tenet #3, I know these are not coming down the chimney.)

And besides that, I'm in the process of putting together the ultimate the Christmas list - the wedding registry! I mean seriously ... I get to waltz into my favorite stores, point a gun at Mauviel saute pans and Steuben Glass, and BAM! create the most amazing wish list ever. Whether or not I've been naughty or nice and whether or not Santa will come around in September is yet to be determined. But for now, this Jolly Old Elf is satisfied!

Lo.

The Comeback Kid and His Chowda

Peter and I throw a party just about every evening in his kitchen.

It starts between 6:00 and 7:00 PM. So after work I scamper home to my apartment to get ready - I touch-up my make-up, change into something less business professional, and tuck away any stress of my workday.

Our parties are usually very exclusive. Peter gets an invite. And I get an invite.

They generally involve a recipe, a bag of fresh ingredients from Casey's, a glass of wine for me, a microbrew for him, some carefully selected mood music, and ultimately a satisfying meal that gets critiqued by two very partial judges.

Most days the crowning point of our party, the meal, is a big success - the judges give it between a 7 and a 10 and I give myself a pat on the back. Tuesday night though ... Eeek! The meal didn't garner such rave reviews. It was about a 3, if that.

This wasn't my first failure. As a continuous experimenter and innovator in the kitchen I have had my fair share of bombs. My brother and sister can attest as well as Peter, and will never let me live down "nude-oles" (linguini with nowhere near enough of the bland sauce that I had made) and the world's spiciest shrimp tacos made with the world's spiciest hot peppers (my brother got sick in the bathroom after those.)

Last night was particularly disappointing though, because it could have been good had I focused. I didn't focus at the grocery store (mostly because I was focused on keeping my ring on my finger this time) and didn't get the right ingredients. I didn't focus in the kitchen because I kept running back and forth to watch Glee. (And Warblers harmonizing, Rachel whining, and Sam and Quinn reinventing my favorite scene in Dirty Dancing were way more interesting than mustard greens.) And I didn't pay attention over the stove as I simultaneously replicated Brittany's moves and turned the cider sauce that went with the seared scallops into gloop.

The result of a gourmet meal prepared by a distracted cook? Sandy mustard greens (yuck!), seared scallops with sauce that looked like puke (yuck!) and grainy organic brown rice that we have finally agreed will never be good and will always taste like grainy organic brown rice. (yuck!)

So last night, I got yanked. And the comeback kid came in to save the day. He did the grocery shopping, scrubbing, steaming, pealing, chopping, sauteing, combining, stirring, and serving. I sat back and watched the focus, the scientific approach, the attention to detail that would bring one of his favorite parts of New England to Naperville.

As I developed our wedding communications brief (that's another story), he prepared a mean New England Clam Chowder that would have made any chowda-eating salty Cape Cod resident proud. This judge gave it a 10 and went back for seconds!

My role in meal preparation last night - taster!

So what did I learn in the past two days. When it's 5:00 and he's hungry, sometimes the best person to prepare dinner is him.

Lo

Here's the recipe (adapted from Saveur)

Ingredients
2 dozen steamer clams
4 strips thick cut bacon from the butcher
1 small yellow onion, peeled and diced
1 tbsp. flour
1 lb red potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes
1/2 cup milk
3/4 cup cream
1 tbsp. butter
Salt and pepper

1. Scrub clams under cold running water to remove grit and sand. Place clams in a large pot with 3 cups cold water. Cover, bring to a boil over medium-high heat, and steam until shells open; check frequently and remove clams with tongs as they open (about 2 minutes for steamers) Discard any that don't open. We had a 100% open rate! Pour cooking liquid through a fine sieve and set aside.

2. Cook bacon in a large pot over medium-low heat until crisp, about 20 minutes. Remove meat, drain on paper towels and set aside to use as a garnish. Add onions to rendered fat and cook over low heat until translucent, about 20 minutes.

3. Remove clams from shells. Coarsely chop clams, cover and set aside.

4. Add flour to onions, stir for 1 minute, then add potatoes, reserved clam cooking liquid, and enough water to cover. Increase heat to medium, cover, and simmer until potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes.

5. Add clams, milk, and cream to pot. Simmer (do not boil) until just heated through, about 5 minutes. Stir in butter and season to taste with salt and pepper. Ladle into bowls and top with reserved bacon!

Thank You

I'm actually kind of bad at saying thank you.
Yesterday alone, I should have said "thank you" at least three times, but I didn't.

Rando alternative Starbucks employee buys me a coffee before he starts his shift.
"What? Why did you do that?" 
Peter tells me I look nice.
"Yeah right."
My boss tells me I'm thankful for you.
"Right back at you."

Why is "thank you" so hard to say sometimes?
Is it our lack of humility?
Is it the conviction that we can do it better ourselves?
Is it the thought that we don't want punks hitting on us at 6:00 AM?

"Thank you" is so hard to say that there is an entire stationary category devoted to helping people express it better; there are business courses dedicated to teaching managers how to say it to their employees; and there is a national holiday demanding people say it.

On Thursday, our nation's Thanksgiving Day, I had a lot to be thankful for. I could have said "thank you" all day long, everywhere I went, to just about everyone that I met. But I didn't dish out quite as many "thank you's" as the world around me deserved.

So a little late ... but with no less heart, here are five "THANK YOU's." In my opinion, these are the best Thanksgiving leftovers I could make this evening even though my turkey soup hit the spot.

Thank you for food lovingly prepared.

By me (even though it didn't turn out the way I planned.)

And by others ... focus in on that amazing bird behind the beautiful people in this photo.

Thank you to family who always cares. 

Enough so that they came all the way to Chicago to be with me for Thanksgiving ...  AND for first time EVER my Mom played cards with us!

Thank you for friends who always care.

Even when they can't be ... they are in spirit, memories and laughter.

Thank you for my fiance whose life I want to share.

And thank you for forgiveness when it didn't seem to be anywhere. 

(If there was a picture to go along with this one - imagine your worst nightmare, then add rain, darkness, thousands and thousand of dollars lost within it, despair, hopelessness, and a team of Jewel-Osco employees who couldn't do anything about it ... then through the tears you see a slight glimmer, a diamond in the rough, a second chance. 

Tonight, I owe a big "thank you" to Where's Waldo, Word Search, and What's Missing in this Picture - those games that brought out the eagle in my eyes and that restored the missing piece to my ring finger. 

Lo. 

My New Accessory

I have a new accessory.
It's amazing.
I've received about fifteen complements on it.
My accessory has sparked conversations reaching into the seventh row of an airplane.
I cannot put my accessory down!
So what is it?
It's a book.
A really, really great book.
It's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I have carried it with me wherever I go this week in hopes that I have a chance to open it up and keep reading. From the airplane home from Las Vegas, to work, to the coffee shop, to Peter's house. And the best part was that it went with everything that I wore.
The other day Peter called me out on it: Why are you carrying that everywhere? Did you really have that on your desk at work?! You think that book is an accessory, don't you?

Maybe ...
Why so attached?
Why so enthralled with this wonderful iridescent yellow and green pile of pages?
I think because when I get into a book - like actually digest every word, live through the scenes and dialogues, and embrace the characters' emotions - it still amazes me. I still feel a tremendous sense of pride because there was a time when I couldn't or wouldn't do this.

From first grade to seventh grade I hardly read.
In second grade I read Me and Katy the Pest.
In third grade I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
In fourth grade I read all the Molly books from the American Girl collection.
Fifth and sixth grades were bleak though. I honestly don't think I finished a book those years.
I always read aloud in class; I skimmed a chapter or two to do my homework; I read the lyrics in my hymnal at Chapel; I read street signs; I even read sheet music very well; but I never read a book.
I tried.
I tried with my cousin, Meghan when she slept over and stayed up late to finish her book. But her speed-reading was discouraging and I figured my dreams would accomplish the same fantastic effect.
I tried with my sister when she would curl up by the fireplace to read the latest Baby Sitter's Club book, but I kept thinking about roasting marshmallows on the fire instead of whatever Nancy Drew was doing.
I tried in Library at school, but my third-grade crush was WAY more interesting than Judy Blume.
  
I always thought books were wonderful and the idea of reading one was even more so. Mostly, because each of my English teachers was beautiful, eloquent, full of romance and had a knack for showcasing our assigned books as if were a prizes on the Price is Right.

For example, Mrs. Bunton was like Mrs. Honey from Matilda. She had the sweetest voice, genuinely loved each of her students and trained her hair to have a perfect flip as it brushed her shoulders. Mrs. Bunton loved books, and I couldn't figure out why I didn't want to read like she did. 

I would borrow books from the Library and collect five or six at a time, sit on my bed, and open them just like Mrs. Bunton. I made sure the cellophane covers would crinkle and creased the inside binding as I read the title to my stuffed animals. I read one page aloud, but without fail, after that page there always seemed to be a distraction - Adam or Erin wanted to play, Debbie wanted to exchange back rubs, Edy wanted to play 500 Rummy, my Mom and Dad came home, the kitchen started to smell like linguini with clam sauce, my eyes started to close as my bed became more comfortable.

In sixth grade Mrs. Lauer came along though. Ahh ... Mrs. Lauer ... she was like a vision out of the Banana Republic catalog circa 1994.  She would sit on top of the head table of our classroom and pulse the rhythms of her literary passions with a signature gesture that made her hand look like a dew drop. She had the most elegant script, used words that only a loyal thesaurus user understands, and made reading look so glamourous.

I was in awe of her. And if she liked reading, I figured this must be good stuff. So I reached the conviction that I would get through one of her book selections. I would sit down, not move, and read.
She picked Red Badge of Courage.
One chapter later I failed.
She picked The Pearl.
Failed again.
Then she picked The Giver.
And I read it in one day.
For the girl who faked her way through Book It! to get multiple personal pan pizzas, this was a huge accomplishment.
AND I got a "GREAT!" from my Mom and Dad who were ceaselessly encouraging me to read.
I loved the book.
It was so real.
It was scary, tense, vivid, and relatable.
It was like a movie in my mind.
I can still see Jonas and Gabriel escaping by sleigh from their Utopian world.
I read it again.
How had I not done this before?!
The next selections were even better - Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, the Great Gatsby and Animal Farm.
I fell in love over and over again.
I got more "GREATS!" from my parents.
I dove deep into the kind of book worm-dom that I only thought possible for my sister and cousin.

Reading kept getting better in high school with a team of teachers who embodied the characters that they preached about.

Dr. Free was like Jo March, the secret lover of Captain Ahab, and Elizabeth Proctor all in one. She was in love with American literature and with the words that built our nation. She had the imagination, passion, New England saltiness, and moral conviction of her favorite novels. Each time I read a book under her guidance, I lived through the harsh New England winters, got lost in the depth of Faulkner's woods, and found my way to freedom the Chopin way.

Dr. Greco was like the adult version of Jane Eyre. She and her students would runaway to the moors outside of Wuthering Heights everyday. Even in her fitted Ann Taylor suits and lace-up booties, Dr. Greco was the ultimate romantic. You wonder why none of us Ellisians had boyfriends - basically, she convinced each of us that there was no one that could live up to Brutus or Heathcliff. Leonardo DiCaprio didn't even have anything on these men.

So this morning, after successfully finishing the Girl with a Dragon Tattoo last night, these memories come flashing back. When I find the time and a book that is as juicy, well-written, and vivid as my favorites from school, I want everyone to see and talk about my new find. I carry with it pride, knowing my own literary history, and I can still hear my parents saying "GREAT!" when I finish.

I know there are a lot of students out there with the same novel delinquencies that I had. There is a lot going on in the world and sometimes it's hard to find a quiet enough space where you can be alone with the words on a page. But delving in, actually reading something versus reading about something is well worth it, because it's a magical journey.

And since I'm finished ... anyone have an idea for another great accessory?

Lo.

Word of Mouth

Have you ever had one of those days when you realize around 5:00 PM that you might not have spoken more than five words throughout the course of the day? They don’t happen often, but when you’ve had one, especially if you're talker like me, they are startling. This week I had two, almost THREE such days.

Tuesday I said, “A Tall Pike’s” and “Thank you.” 

Wednesday I said the same with a couple “Hi, my name is Lauren” lines in the afternoon. 

Thursday morning the Starbuck's employee got the same terse sentence.
The irony is that my wordless days fell during the annual Word of Mouth Marketing Association summit in Las Vegas.
Why without words? I think it had to do with the frequency, pace, and amount I have been talking all year - about me, my organization, and the branding that goes along with both of them. I was ready to let someone else do the talking.

I attended the conference as the sole representative from my organization, and I found myself in a sea of conversation-driven corporate brand managers and agency supervisors, each looking for a leg up and inspiring case study to land them the next BIG viral communications campaign. Generally, I’m pretty good at flying solo and jumping into a crowded colloquy. I've also touted the benefits time and again on this blog of being and going it alone. However, this week "alone" felt particularly lonely and my personal word of mouth strategy felt very off target.   

So I sat quietly in a line-up of conference rooms and took in best and next practices in word of mouth marketing. I had a lot to learn and at times I felt like the amateur in the room even though I'm entrenched in the world of social marketing everyday. I listened attentively to brands and agencies who had found some of the most innovative ways to break through the clutter and clamor of the marketplace. Companies like:

• TMZ who put together and will soon air a set of 5 PSAs, all created by their loyal consumer base.
• Jamba Juice who leveraged brand ambassadors in the form of passionate Marathon runners to promote their product and its health benefits on big race days. 
• Unilever and Badin Laundry Detergent who kept fresh smelling clothes on the minds of a conflicted Israeli nation by courting and building relationships with the chattiest Israelis. Then seeding messages about their product as the more upbeat and alternative topic of conversation to those about political turmoil and uprising. 
• HP who recruited two popular students per college campus to act as marketing directors for the brand, granting HP access and a brand presence in the most exclusive parties, rallies, journals, and classrooms so they could remain relevant and cool to the Apple dominated youth market. 

The common thread behind each of these creative and successful word of mouth campaigns, was that each brand let other people do the talking for them. First they took a step back and listened to their consumers. Then they found a simple message that connected their target market and recruited vocal and passionate consumers to seed that message. Ultimately, it was up to those ambassadors to spread the messages in their own ways and words. 

These campaigns, in my mind, were genius. They also made me feel better about my own wordlessness and attention to listening during the first day and a half of the summit. Like the rest of the population, I'm a very social being. I want to be heard, I want to be seen, and I want to be in the know. However, sometimes, like the brands I mentioned, I need to realize that I don't necessarily have the right words. I need to remove and silence myself from the constant chatter to figure out what my brand and I actually mean to others. 

I got back late on Friday night and couldn't wait to see my most loyal consumer. Although I had found my words again and was ready to chat his ear off, I thought I should put some word of mouth strategies to use. So in Hugo's Frog Bar, another sea of people clamoring for attention and aiming to be heard, I engaged in a quiet, private conversation with Peter. Over the noise of the jazz-playing band, divorcees picking up other divorcees, birthday parties, crashing of plates, clinking of glasses, and crunching of crab legs, I listened to my best customer. I wanted to reflect on our history. I wanted to hear his recollection of how we first met, what our early relationship felt like, and how the story of "us" progressed.


And you know what, I learned something. I learned that my faux pas on the first weekend of business school almost scared Peter away. I learned that I can be awkward to engage with. I learned that brown hair is better. I learned that I was always the one. And I learned that I should put an end to the focus group after one glass of wine, because then I "just get ridiculous."


I'm looking forward to another week of using my words inside and outside of the workplace. But am thankful for the time spent last week, listening to the wisdom of others. Sometimes we are too sure that we know exactly who we are and what people want from us. However, like a great brand, sometimes your consumers know you better than you know yourself. And sometimes the best things you can say about yourself, come from your brand ambassadors.  

Lo.

My Super Fan!

The Two Step

In the past 18 months, I've attended many weddings. Which means I've also watched many first dances. This age-old wedding tradition is one of my favorite parts of the festivities. Why? Because in a lot of cases it signals the end of two-step awkwardness and the beginning of harmony, rhythm and a more complex portfolio of dance moves for a couple. 

This transition tends to be particularly true in my circle of girl friends. From Ellis proms, to lacrosse parties, to apartment pre-gaming, dancing has always been a team sport for the girls. Without rule or regulation, the girls would circle up, sweat it out, and show the room how it was done. There were stand-out All-Americans of the dance floor of course, but for the most part we each did our part to bring the music to life. 

We took on Abba and Aqua; Cascada and Kylie; Ja Rule and Jay-Z; Brittany and Ga-Ga. We didn't need boys. In fact, there were no male roles in our choreography. I remember countless times in high school and college, where the men stood off to the side, looking at us perplexed, thinking how does one even cut-in to this dance?

Adam's thinking about it ... but probably won't be able to cut-in on this one.

As time went on though, the men learned how to cut-in and interrupt our choreographed circle of trust. And one by one my girls, my dancing partners, paired off and started practicing one-two-steps with their significant others. It took me a while to find my partner so during that time I continued dancing by myself. I played all of the parts. I had a vision in my head of what "Dancing Queen" was supposed to look like with all my friends, so I would execute the routine even if there was no one left to follow my lead.

About three years ago, Peter tried to cut-in. He didn't understand the complexities and syncopation of my dancing. He didn't have the same vision for what dancing was supposed to look like. And I wasn't ready at the time to give up my solo performances and all-girl dance parties - I wasn't ready to partner off. However, throughout the past 12 weddings, I've seen how beautiful those first dances are, and I've envied the happy couple with the synchronized moves.

Their two-steps have taken on various formats. I've seen the classics, the overly choreographed, the casual and the comedic. Each works and each tells the guests something about the bride and groom. Their song choice, choreography, demeanor, and style as dance partners help paint a picture of their relationship.

The classic dances set to the pure vocals and sweet lyrics on Tony Bennett or Etta James depict a traditional, romantic bride and groom.

The overly choreographed dances made possible by countless lessons at a local Arthur Murray studio describe a couple that wants to break out of their "we can't dance" stigma.

The intimate and more casual dances are for those who have nothing to prove. They just want to spend the first dance with each other, not interacting with the rest of the room.

The comedic dances are for those who love a little mockery. They play on the traditional, over-exaggerate their moves, and are beaming the whole time.

This past weekend Kristen and Charlie lit up the dance floor in a perfectly classic manner. There wasn't even a glimmer of Kristen's one-arm strike-a-pose dance of our college days. It was all grace, beauty, and romance.

I started to think about my spastic dancing and how I needed someone to reign in my impromptu moves. I think I'm finally ready for Peter to cut-in and lead. This is a tough transition, but I figured we approach the rest of our lives together as partners, I should be able to carry this over onto the dance floor. Next step is thinking about our style, which for two strong individuals, can sometimes be hard to decipher. However, with a little help from Fred and Ginger, I think we might get there.

Lo.