A Portrait of 702

I am no photographer, but I love photographs. I especially love all the ones I have taken and collected of my friends and family. These photos weave together characters, places, and stories that make up some of my favorite memories. 

As you walk into and around my apartment, you will see photographs everywhere - on my bulletin board, in picture frames, hanging on my walls, clipped to magnets on my refrigerator, and throughout my stack of recently received cards and notes. I pride myself on trying to capture all my friends and family members in these photo displays. And honestly, Peter doesn't get that much real estate since I see him everyday. Instead, everyone that's missing from my day-to-day life right now is showcased. When you live alone, you want to bring everyone that's not there into the room with you.

So how, with that said, did I come away from my first weekend jaunt of the year without one photo? I just realized that I didn't pose for one photograph this past weekend. How is that possible when I was with eight of my best friends and wearing my very photogenic tall double-breasted Russian inspired Frye boots?

I'll tell you why.
Because I was with friends who can't be summed up in photos. 

I use my photographs to recall memories - to get back the laughter that was present in a moment or to bring that person or place a little closer to my niche of Naperville. But there are some people and places that are too big for pictures - you just can't capture all that is there in one frame. My lacrosse family is like that - you can't restrain them to a 4x6 or even an 8x10.  (Well, I guess there were a couple moments that needed photos, and Kristen, I promise I won't post the best one.) But for the most part, our memories, laughs, tears, celebrations and hugs are so rich that I don't need photos for them.

We were together this weekend for an unlikely circumstance - an event that I don't think any of us were prepared for. But we were together. And despite the sorrow, we laughed. We told stories in a circle around the fireplace at Kassen's house, creating a symphony of contagious laughter that promises the best stomach workout ever. You can't put the stories that Meredith and Abby tell, the subtle glance or eye roll that Kristen gives me, the awkward comment that Caylan says, the spastic reenactments that Kinnik puts on, the angry eyebrows of Bridget, the hysterical inserted one-liner from Mia, the absolute grace and poise of Kassen, and the questioning looks given to us by our parents and significant others into a picture.

If there was a picture from this weekend it would be like my favorite photo of us that sits on my desk at work. It was taken during Halloween our senior year of college. We had dressed up in Mrs. Simon-made girl scout uniforms and called ourselves Troop 702. None of us is looking at the camera. Each of us is in character - our unique, but complementary characters. I can hear each of us still talking and laughing in that picture and each time I chuckle with the group.

So without a picture, I think this weekend can be summed up in two lines.

In my heart forever ... 702.
In our hearts forever ... Mrs. Delano.

Lo.

Goodbye Head Pillow

There are many steps, processes and procedures that go into a grand wedding plan. In fact, my sister-in-law got me this little blue book for my engagement that tells me what I'm supposed to organize and arrange one, two, five, seven, nine and ten months before the wedding.  I'm on what, nine months out? And I am supposed to send Save the Dates, reserve venues, reserve vendors, get the dress, and get the bridesmaids dresses .. almost done, and done, done, done, done.

There are certain things they don't mention in the book that would be categorized as long-lead to-dos - all those things that are supposed to transform you into the perfect bride on your wedding day - things like making sure you are on the right path to have the perfect body, hair, nails and skin when you walk down the aisle. These things take time because they require certain lifestyle and behavior changes - changes that can take a while!

To get the perfect body - Diet and exercise. Kinda dieting, definitely exercising.
To get the perfect hair -  Groom yourself. After being absent from a salon for seven months, I decided I would get a haircut next week
To get the perfect nails - stop biting them! That's going to take a wing and a prayer though. 

To get the perfect skin - bring back Dr. Neiland, buy Proactive or maybe just get rid of the head pillow?

Honestly, I'm most worried about my skin right now as things aren't going so well there. And I think I may have found the culprit. But distancing myself, and finally parting from him will be very, very tough. He has been insulating, comforting and deafening me for the past seven years. He has also been suffocating my cheeks, which has given them an excuse to find breathing room in the form of rosy red blemishes, which nobody wants, bride or not. Nine-months out, I need to say goodbye to the head pillow.

So you're probably thinking, what is this head pillow thing? Why in the world do you sleep with a head pillow? Here's the story.

I used to live in a one-bedroom apartment in the South Side of Pittsburgh. It was one of five one-bedroom apartments in a converted row house right over the Birmingham Bridge. I was so excited when I first moved in - it was a little piece of the world that was just mine. I paid the rent, I bought the furniture, I stocked the refrigerator, and I controlled the volume. Within 600 square feet of the world I set the rules.

Originally, the partitioned house was inhabited by a middle-aged, flamboyant Cheesecake Factory manager, a squirrely Carnegie Mellon graduate student, a fireman and myself. There was enough distance and wall-space between my apartment and theirs that they never bothered me and I always slept like a rock.

A year later though, the tenant cycle shifted - the fireman left, Patrick's flamboyance lost its family-friendly touch, the Carnegie Mellon girl got a boyfriend, a tall, rail-thin, dark-haired, ghostly-white girl moved into the closet of an apartment right next to me, and the walls of my apartment got a lot thinner. My little part of the world suddenly conformed to a different schedule and I no longer controlled the volume.

After closing the restaurant that I managed between one and three in the morning, I would rush home and try to fall asleep quickly. While the house was quiet during the day, it came alive at night, right after I got home from work, with a cacophony of disturbing noises. Nightly, Patrick would throw drug-ridden, disco-driven raves in the apartment below me; the bar outside my window would open their back porch allowing drunk college students to pour onto it and continue their clamorous pursuit for a mate; and the ghost-girl right next door to me, would let her abusive boyfriend into the house.

Every night she would succumb to the fights, screams, and terror that he would provoke. I never saw him, but I heard everything. And because the squirelly CMU girl got a boyfriend, the fireman left, and Patrick was partying, I was alone in dealing with the nightmarish noise. For awhile I was scared to call the police or use ear plugs, because I thought he might come and get me. So, I put a pillow over my head to break up some of the noise and comfort me through the night. After one particularly rough fight, I finally called the police and my landlord ... and the police finally came and took him away.

The head pillow worked wonders though. And it continued working wonders in South Bend when I had to drown out Jimmy Clausen and his dorky, Domer girlfriends partying next door, in Naperville where I have to drown out trains outside my window, and in every big-city hotel where the sirens, cabs, and revelers play way into the early hours of the morning.

In my apartment in Naperville though, I feel safe, and the people around me are pretty quiet. So I'm thinking that ear plugs will suffice to quiet the train noise at night, which would put the head pillow to rest. And hopefully saying goodbye to him will bring perfect skin on my wedding day. But a Dr. Neiland intervention would be really nice.

Lo. 

Resolving To Be On Time

Last year I quickly came up with a new year's resolution. I was in need of a bigger dose of public self-therapy, so I resolved to more diligently and thoughtfully contribute to The Early Riser. I would say that my 65 entries (some better than others) was a testament to a successful resolution, one that I'm proud of, especially after too many years of Lenten fasting failures and new year's resolutions that only lasted two weeks.  

So with newfound motivation, I want to start 2011 with a resolution. On January 1, Peter picked his as I struggled to find mine. I first thought about eating healthier, but with icing already eliminated from my diet, that meant cutting out the wine and chocolate and that's no fun. I thought about praying more, but I thought that shouldn't count, because I should be doing that already. Today, I came up with it though. After a day repairing my own delinquent tendencies, I created a great resolution. In 2011, I'm resolving to be more on time.

Now ... with that said, I would like to redefine the notion of "on time." "On time" to me means being where I'm supposed to be or doing what I'm supposed to do in a timely manner. Some things have a set deadline and expiration date. Other things don't and they require patience and the realization that you aren't necessarily in control.

I used to think "on time" meant five minutes early, being the first one there, and getting something done according to everyone else's timeline. Growing up, I used to pride myself on being punctual. No matter what, no matter where I was the one that made other people produce an apologetic "were you waiting long?" I always said, "No, not at all." But my uncontrollable facial expressions whined, yes, actually I was waiting for like twenty minutes, I looked like a complete loser, and I'd really appreciate it if you NEVER did that again! At the same time, I was the one out of my friends and family who was a little late for the big stuff - the last one to "become a woman", to have a boyfriend, to get a "real" job and to get married.

Over the past five years, I've gone through a dramatic shift in punctuality. I seem to be late for the things I can't be late for, and early for the things I'm not ready for. On a daily basis, I'm running 10 to 15 minutes late; monthly five to ten days late; and yearly more like three to four months late for the you-need-to-be-there-on-time stuff. For instance, today I took my emissions test so I could renew my four-month expired license plate. That should have been done on time, a looong time ago. All the while, I kept pushing things that life wasn't ready for - when am I going to get married, when am I going to have kids, when am I going to make the big bucks?

So here's my resolution - to go back to the old ways - to be five-minutes early for the things that demand absolute punctuality - meetings for work, mass, license plate renewals, bill payments, weddings and other things that are going to proceed with or without me. And to be patient and okay waiting for the things that will happen in due time, when all parties are ready to participate. Also ... to never, ever, EVER keep my sister waiting this year. I think that I'll be a whole lot less stressed out if I keep this resolution close at heart and hand.

When I was young, at this point in the evening, I would have called my Mom and asked, "where are you?! Dinner's ready!" But with a new resolve, and the mature knowledge that dinner isn't going anywhere and will be just as good simmering a little while longer, I'm patiently waiting for Peter's timely arrival home and a very flexible "dinner time." Wow, I'm starting this year off right!

Tonight it's a little pork and sauerkraut celebration to ring in the New Year.

Lo.

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.