Layers of Love

I've been staring, starry-eyed at this photo for two weeks. Smitten Kitchen, the master baker, did it again. She made this for herself for her own birthday. And of course it is a delectable object of perfection. I've looked at it again and again. I've read the recipe over and over. And I've thought ...
I can do it. 
I can do it. 
But I've been trying to find an occasion that was worthy of it. Of making it, tempting my incontrollable urge to taste its 7 to 11 layers of batter and icing, and serving it. Yesterday, I got it - I had the perfect excuse as the perfect storm of Summer Hours, Peggy's birthday and the importation of the egg beater from my apartment to Peter's house collided. At 2:00, I teed myself up to make it.

To start, I made the cake batter. I blended together lots of egg yolks, lots of powdered sugar, comparatively less flour, a little lemon juice and salt, into a paste more or less, which miraculously turned from puddy to foam with the addition of seven egg whites that I had beat into stiff peaks. (Life was SO much easier with an egg beater.)

On one 12x17 inch baking sheet, lined with parchment paper, I spread out the foamy batter, and set it in the oven to bake at 400 degrees for 7-10 minutes. I had made sure to brush my teeth right before starting to bake, so I my minty fresh mouth passed on licking the bowl. I was so proud of my cunning nature.

But then I made the chocolate icing, divided the cake into the layers, started to assemble, and had my downfall. I guess the super clean feeling had started to wear down, so I tried a crumb. Then a whole piece. Then two, then say fifteen. And my stomach said, "stop, please." So I did. (The cake batter recipe is amazing. If anything - just make that and serve it!)

Then I made my own caramel. This was a very cool process. I felt like I was back in Mrs. Kuhn's science class again, learning about the different phases of solid, liquid and gas. The 1/2 cup of sugar and 1 tablespoon of water went from liquid, to solid, to brown liquid, to brittle candy in the period of say ten minutes. (I'm sure there was a gas phase in there somewhere, but I must have missed it.) The caramel was poured over the last layer of cake and I was supposed to work very quickly to cut out the little stars, but the layer that was working its way through my digestive system slowed me down a bit. The caramel solidified in less than a minute, and my cookie cutter got stuck on star number two. So I only made one and a half successfully.

After iced, assembled and topped off, I put the cake on its little cake plate in the refrigerator to chill for a couple hours.

After going for a short run, putting my family party outfit on, and showing Peter the somewhat lopsided final product, we brought it to the party. And after dinner Peggy made her birthday wish on the shooting star (and a half.)

So why this cake? Well, when I got Peter, I also got his amazing family. I got six more layers of love in my life. Each a little different, some a little lopsided, some thicker than others, but all as sweet as the next. And all fit together perfectly, glued as one by common understandings of love, life, and family. And I'm so honored to be part of this little sandwich now. 

Now to run off the over indulgence.

Lo.

Lunch at Tiffanys

I often wonder how much time I could save, or better yet, how much sooner I could finish my work for the day and head home, if I made a conscious effort to remove all the unnecessary, time-wasting activities.   

• Say, if I told the people that kept stopping by my cubicle to ask a question (or two or three), and then ultimately chit chat about things I have to feign interest in, to submit their questions in writing, I could save say, 25-30 minutes every day.
• Or if I didn't talk to anyone in the bathroom. Depending on how many times I went, that could easily save 10-15 minutes.
• If I didn't compulsively check my blog to see if any new comments surfaced - 10 minutes saved.
• If I signed off Outlook Messenger and neglected Ashlee's and Cristine's blinking messages, another 20 minutes.
• And what if I cut out the ultimate drain on productivity – lunch? 30 - 60 minutes saved.
• All in all, these time saving measures could get me home between 2:00 and 3:00 every day instead of 6:00 or 6:30. 

The thing is, as a communications professional some of these more social activities are unavoidable. You basically have to demonstrate your mean oral and written communication skills everywhere you go at the office - whether it's in response to the inane question, telling someone how great they look in the bathroom mirror, chit chatting in line to get your Rolo McFlurry, or using an IMing device to reach clarity on an issue, there are some conversations you can't avoid. But lunch and the lingered conversations that go along with it are avoidable. And for the past two years, skipping it has kept my workdays a little more compact. 

Generally, I'm very good at the no lunch thing. My Mom used to tell me that all she had for lunch was a can of Diet Coke, and as an absolute super woman, I believed it to be the liquid diet of champions. So I developed my own power lunch routine - Diet Sprite and a bag of 100-calorie popcorn. This dynamic lunching keeps me powering along until I reach absolute fatigue around 5:00.  I really don’t understand the whole ladies that lunch thing - talk about a drain on productivity. Even if I didn’t work I would much rather be a lady that runs, writes, colors, and cooks during the day, and a lady that gets cocktails at night.

But last week, during our staff meeting, Betty warned us about the health risks associated with eating lunch at your desk, and we were all encouraged to get up and get out for lunch. So I kept the popcorn in my cupboard this week and went out. Not once, not twice, but three times! Monday, Cristine and I had a very delicious and productive venting session. Wednesday, my whole team went to Labriola for lunch, which brought beneficial brainstorming activity. And then yesterday, as I was feeling more and more comfortable with lunch breaking, the ultimate break happened, perhaps making me a lunch convert for life. I set a date at high noon right underneath the Tiffany's sign. And Peter and I had lunch at Tiffany's. Rather than a brown bag, my lunch came in a little blue box. And it was delicious. 

Even with my lunch breaks, I've still been home by 6:00 PM each night this week. Basically, they really haven't set me back. In fact, they've been rather rejuvenating and I haven't been a ravenous monster in need of pre-dinner grazing when I get home. They also tended to refresh my thinking and help me deliver better results in the afternoons. And thinking about the sparkling band that will king my other ring on September 3, provided an impetus to work even harder because the money that came from the cost saving measures that I implemented recently, just got spent. 

Lo.

My Favorite Regular

If you've ever worked in the restaurant industry, you know the term "regulars" well. Love em or hate em, they're the customers you can always count on and that can play a large part in your restaurant's success. You can expect them once or twice a week, and when they arrive, you take them to their favorite table, order their drink for them, alert them to all the entrees that might spark a violent reaction to their gluten, lactose, or nut intolerances, make sure that the kimchee comes on the side, and at the end of the evening act surprised and utterly appreciative when they over tip you.

When I was working at Soba and Eleven, there were hundreds of them - Big Burrito groupies more or less, that viewed the Group's portfolio of restaurants as the only viable options to the question, "Where do you want to go to dinner tonight?" I can still tell you where certain regulars had to sit, what they would always order, what I needed to do when they got drunk (namely, get Rob Hirst), and how much they tipped.

For me, it didn't take working in the restaurant industry for three years though to know the value of regulars. In the imaginary cafes of my childhood I had a set of regulars as well - customers that kept Chez Highmont lucrative and in business. They loved my work: They reveled over the little menus I had mocked up, the napkins that I precisely folded, the courses that played off my favorite meals at La Charcuterie and Pasta Piatta, and the first class service that I delivered.

At Soba and Eleven, I had a small set of favorite regulars. But there was no regular that could beat the enthusiasm and graciousness of a gentleman that came to Chez Highmont just about every night it was open.

When he entered my bistro after a long day at work, he would loosen his tie and say, "Mmmm, smells good!" Just the words that give any chef the confidence and extra oomph it takes to complete her masterpieces. He would mosey up to the bar to get his signature Manhattan and dial his wife to see how long she would be. She was always a little late, somewhere on the Boulevard of the Allies, 5-10 minutes away, but he didn't mind waiting because he loved catching up with the house staff and hearing about their days. 

When she arrived, he made sure her drink was waiting for her, and ordered a cheese plate for them to share. Then I'd escort them to their favorite table - it was the one with the windows all around it. They liked it because they could look out at the garden filled with the fullest impatiens - flowers that reminded him of his own glorious garden at home. They would catch up from the work day, order their dinner - pesto penne for the lady, and a tarragon chicken salad sandwich for the man - and I would get to work in the back making sure that it was prepared exactly the way they liked it. Easy on the salt, lots of garlic, not a lot of mayo.

I would cook quietly so I had the chance to overhear their conversation. I heard about the man's heroics in the Cath Lab, how proud he was of his daughter's grades, how much he loved hearing his children practice piano, how he was going to juggle some stuff around at work to make sure that he could make it to his daughter's play, and how he thought his wife looked beautiful with her hair curly and in the new suit that he had bought her. She would always laugh incredulously, but I knew inside and out she was beaming.  

Without interrupting, I would quietly serve them their dinner. And because anything went at Chez Highmont, I would sit down to dinner with them, and so would my brother and sister. The man would rave and rave about the chicken salad - "How did you do it? And her pesto is amazing? What's in it? I need these recipes." And I would smile with pride as my brother and sister rolled their eyes at my latest installment of brown-nosing. I was so happy though that I made my exceptional dad, exceptionally satisfied.

When I left Chez Highmont, I left my regulars behind. They have traveled out to the new bistro in Naperville a couple times, but it's not the same as serving them every week. Instead I'm starting to recruit another set of regulars, and on Saturday and Sunday they came out in droves.

Saturday, the restaurant became mobile as I catered a party on the Peggy O. For it I prepared my Dad's favorite chicken tarragon salad, a pesto potato salad (that I know he would have loved), melon and prosciutto, and a strawberry and feta salad.

Then on Sunday I served a special Father's Day menu - cucumber sandwiches, Peter's 5-hour smoked ribs (another of his favorites), baked beans, jalapeno corn bread, and the best salad ever (watermelon, tomato, jalapeno, feta, and mint.) All weekend, while chopping, blending, beating, arranging, and serving I thought about my Dad - how he would have been sitting there learning the tricks of my amateur trade, laughing at the silly stories that I told, and taking a time-out or two to go over more serious issues - say the wedding guest list, organist replacement, or brunch menu. I just kept thinking about how much I missed my favorite regular and how tough it can be to be away from family on special days.

On Sunday evening, we got to catch up on the phone though, and I told him all about the parties and the cooking that I had done. He wanted this recipe and that and he told me how great it all sounded! I even told him about my big idea. And I'm thinking ... if it happens, he might make the trip more often.

So happy Father's Day to my favorite regular. I still think the card with the dad dressed up as a king and the little message that I wrote says it all. "Peter may be my prince, but you'll always be my king."

Lo.

Oh ... and one of the recipes that he wanted ...

Tarragon Chicken Salad 
Ingredients: 
3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Three ribs of celery diced
1/2 cup toasted slivered almonds
3 Tablespoons fresh tarragon chopped
3 Tablespoons mayonnaise
Juice of one lemon
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Rub chicken with olive oil, salt and pepper generously. Roast at 375 for 25-35 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool in pan with juice. (Make sure not to throw away the juice.) Cut chicken into small, bite-sized cubes.

In a mixing bowl combine chicken, reserved juice, celery, almonds, tarragon, mayonnaise, lemon juice, and garlic powder. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Ideally, let chill for an hour or two before serving.

Perfectly Happy

When I was growing up, every summer we used to travel to Quincy, Illinois, a small town on the mighty Mississippi, to visit my Grandma and Grandpa. My friends that didn’t know the ins and outs of Quincy, thought it was just another Midwestern dot on the map colored in with strip malls, pick-up trucks, and corn fields. But for us, those that knew its secrets, Quincy never failed to deliver seven days of absolute joy. 

It always seemed to be nighttime when we arrived. After dinner, almost bedtime. We would be greeted with a tray of cookies, eight or nine rows deep, and permission to go ahead, have three or four, just don’t make your stomach upset. For a second grader with a stomach made of steel, I could have eaten ten Holly Dollies before I ever got sick, but appreciated the relaxed cookie rules. Bedtime was pushed back an hour or so, we all grabbed our favorite sweets, and we told our grandparents about our plays, dance recitals, ball games, and art projects while my Grandpa started to 'rest his eyes' in his chair.

Waking up in the morning meant homemade cinnamon-laced zucchini bread with a side of cream cheese (I always wondered who put cream cheese on their zucchini bread), radio rolls from Underbrink's bakery, and Wheaties - the breakfast of Champions that legend has it my Uncle Jim ate with conviction every morning. I went straight for the pastries. 

After breakfast we would turn over the geodes that lined the garden to find potato bugs, play wiffle ball with the big red bat, and toss a ball back and forth with a wooden scoop set that we called "tacroll." All were just a series of efforts to kill time before lunch - the main meal of the day - a feast that might include spaghetti and meatballs, roast beef, or strip steaks, served with sides of mashed potatoes, jello salad, green bean casserole, and buttery garlic bread.

Then it was time - time to pack up, pack in the Buick, and make our way to the pool, and not just any pool, Spring Lake. It was huge - Centennial Beach huge. It was basically a man made lake with a sand bottom, two slides, a diving board, lap lanes, beaches, and more space than you could ever imagine to play underwater tag - a game that my Dad excelled at because of his inhuman ability to run on the sand bottom of the pool. 

Our pruned hands and feet couldn't get us out. Only one thing could – snack time on F 59. And there was only one reasonable choice, a Deter’s Chipwich – a wonderful 400 calorie frozen confection that melted on the way down and filled that minor cavity I had developed after lunch.

Leaving the pool at the end of the day was always tough. Sad. But promises of dinner in the main dining room of Spring Lake, Maid Rites (a fried Pork Tenderloin sandwich for me), or fried catfish at the Patio, made it okay. 

In the evenings we would browse through the colorful encyclopedias in the attic, play Monopoly or Memory, gawk at the collection of porcelain dolls that my Aunt Ann still had displayed in her bedroom, reenact the founding of this great city with the extensive cowboy and Indian set, play ping pong, catch fireflies in mason jars, and eat one last Holly Dolly before being tucked in for bed by not only two people that loved me, but four.

When the week came to an end, and when it was time to say goodbye, my grandparents would stand in front of their house and give us hugs. Everyone got a little teary eyed. My Grandpa would give me one last squeeze and tell me, “always stay as happy as you are.”

Twenty-some years later, I still think about his simple instructions and assess how well I've done. I'm very happy. I'll give myself an A. But there are days here and there when I get sad - when I think I've let my Grandpa down - and when I hate that I can't be as carefree as I used to be under my grandparents watch in Quincy. 

Yesterday was one of those days. I had wrapped up the work day, and went downtown to try on my wedding dress for the first time. It was the wrong time of the month, and I knew it might not be the best idea to put it on. The attendant helped me step in, zipped me up, and said in so many words, "voila!" I didn't look in the mirror and think wow, this is perfect. In fact, I had a hard time even looking at myself. My chest was too big, my hair was a matted down mess, my makeup had smeared, my shoulders and arms looked bigger than I wanted them to, my stomach wasn't concave and of course my nails looked awful. I scrutinized myself to death and only felt uplifted when I saw the marveling faces on SGS, Peggy, and Katie who had come with me to gape and gawk at the gown. I felt terrible, and I didn't know why.

I called my sister afterward, and midway through our conversation, I think she hit the nail on the head. She told me that our family tends to think we need to be perfect in all that we do. And it's impossible. There is no perfect. And you're going to drive yourself insane trying to achieve it. Her deduction was ironic, considering that my boss told me something very similar a week before during my midyear review. I guess I have gained a somewhat unhealthy obsession with perfection - in my job, in my appearance, in my relationships. And when all my hard work doesn't translate into perfect results, I tend to get overly and overtly frustrated.

But here's the thing, my Grandpa never told tell me to stay as perfect as I am. In fact, during those summers in Quincy, I'm sure I didn't exhibit perfect behavior. My nails were chewed then too, my stomach stuck out, I probably had permanent chocolate stains on my face, I pouted till my Dad escorted me over the algae-covered part of the sand so I could dive from the tower with him, and I tended to lose most of the board games. But I was very, very happy. That's what my Grandpa saw in me - and he never wanted me to lose it.

When I'm with Peter, I'm just that happy. And I know whether I'm sweating or bloated, whether my hair is dismantled or my nails are chipped, whether I trip and fall or end up leading Peter through our first dance, that Peter will think I look beautiful, just the way I am. And like my sister said, I will feel like a princess - not a perfect one, but a perfectly happy one who will make my Grandpa proud. 

Lo. 

The Classic Hollywood Honeymoon

On a cold, rainy Saturday back in December, Peter and I made a little day trip to Springfield to visit Aunt Ann and Uncle Dick. During the two hour drive we drifted away, out of the '95 BMW, the bleak farmland scenery, and the approaching Chicago winter, and into the southern part of France as I read A Year in Provence out loud. We made it through the Mistral, through Fox Stew, through the triumphant set-up of their massive, monolithic stone table, and the month April.

On the way home it was too dark to read, and without a road trip in the near future, we neglected the book for several months. Recently, we dove back in and have since made it through September. Once a week or so, Peter and I will nestle into the Adirondack chairs in the very public facing back yard and I will put on a little French play for him. I dramatically emphasize the Francois, I give characteristic voices to Faustin, Menicucci, the Houseguests and the Madames and Monsieurs who serve sumptuous lunches at their five-star Maisons, and I act out the cultural gestures that are described in the book. I'm pretty certain the neighbors think I'm crazy and that Peter is illiterate, but I'm okay with it.

Last night we made it through a description of the most enviable wine-tasting that lead to an unexpected hangover and the purchase of multiple cases of wine and headed into October. While we read, our supper stewed and our stomachs rumbled, and around 8:00 we sat down to eat our appropriately themed dinner of bouillabaisse. 

As we enjoyed our end of the day party, this one a la Provence, I silently toasted Monsieur Jenkins, Aireen 04, my Mom, Louie and Michelle, our family vacations to France, the Cointreau factory, Huguette and Marie-Claire, Nicole and our post-college trip to Europe, and that awful French pen pal I had in seventh grade who told me that my French was horrible.

Yes, that's me tasting Loire Valley Sauvignon Blancs in 5th grade.

Oh, and one more thing ... the fact that Peter and I will no longer have to live vicariously through our literary reenactments, we are going to kick off the Naperville dust, and become the vacationers that Faustin so despises.

Yesterday, in between checking and responding to work emails, I received a half a dozen or so personal ones from Peter and the travel agent. Here's the itinerary - just was able to book my favorite hotel - check out this place - should I make the transaction - yes! - okay, please proceed - BOOKED! 

Booked to the South of France! Here's what's in store. On Sunday, after the wedding weekend brunch that I just heard the Bloody Mary details of, we fly to Nice. Then make the two hour drive or so to Monte Carlo. We stay there for three days, then we're off to the Antibes and this little hotel called the Belles Rive. (It was a favorite of F. Scott Fitzergerald.) After three days there, we head to Right Bank of Paris during the heart of Fashion Week. It's going to be the best ten days ever.

And I know every bride out there says it - but I have the best fiance ever. Without prompt, he took my bridal communication brief to heart and booked the most "Hollywood Classic" honeymoon ever. And I'm pretty sure we're going to put the stars and models to shame because while they're unhappy with hunger, we'll be wining, dining and smiling in newlywed fashion.

Lo.

Saying Yes

There are moments when Peter and I are cooking. Or when Peter and I are just sitting outside after work. Or when we're going for a little walk, that we both get quiet. There is this lull in conversation and something about Peter's demeanor registers nervousness and anxiety. Then I get it too - butterflies start fluttering in my stomach. And I think ... oh my gosh, this is it.
He says, "I was thinking ..."
My stomach flips and silently I leap to the conclusion, "Yes, yes, I will!"

But wait. That already happened. I was already asked, and I already answered.

Last September, Peter caught me by surprise, without a moment to suspect or anticipate anything. There wasn't silence or nervousness. I was thinking about the smoked turkey sandwich that I had packed for our picnic lunch, how hungry I was, and how quickly I could get our picnic blanket down so I could eat said sandwich. And then ... oh my God, Peter was on his knee, and there was this brilliant, sparkly, very expensive object in his hand, and I reached for it a la Frodo. Eyes wide opened, mouth agape, I took the ring and said, "Of course." Basically, not at all how I thought I would've responded when Peter popped the big question.

I was thinking of answering in a much more Hollywood driven fashion. In my fairy tale dreams Prince Peter would have proposed and I would have framed my face in a half surprised, half smirk expression. I would have been wearing an adorable sundress and my hair would have been romantically swept to the side. I would have shed a tear or two. And I would have said something eloquent before I grabbed the ring. (It was just so sparkly I had to put it on.) But like so much else in life that comes as a surprise, it's the inability to find the syrupy sentences, the downright awkward fumbling for a response, that in the end produces the best, most genuine answers. Like "of course."

So that was it - that was the big question I had been waiting for. So when Peter finishes his "I was thinking ..." sentences with statements like "we should smoke a ten pound pork shoulder on Sunday," I tend to get a bit disappointed that the sweet proposal moment is over. That perhaps no one will ever ask me a big question like that again - a question that basically says, "you are a very, very special person to me." 

But then this weekend happened. I got three proposals! Each were complete surprises, and unrehearsed, I answered. Yes, Yes, Yes!

First, on Friday, as the digital clock on my computer moved from 12:59 to 1:00 PM and I rejoiced in the joy of summer hours, I got a call from Peter's sister Claire. We caught up for a while and right after we got through our weekend plans, she said, "Well ... Ellie wants to know if you'll be her Godmother." 
Stomach flipped, heart raced, eyes beamed. I was elated. I was going to be a fairy Godmother and have the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of The Double G and Aunt Barb. Wow. Talk about feeling very special. "Yes! Of course I will!"

About an hour later, I stopped in the leasing office of my building to pick up a captive package. When I got back to my apartment I opened it and found a little glass canister with the most delicious pretzel, M&M, white chocolate candies ever. And a note in Kassen's perfect font that said, "will you be my bridesmaid?" I called her right away to leave a message that said, "absolutely!" And then proceeded to eat half the jar of candies. I was feeling very special now.

Several hours later, I found myself downtown, drinking Chardonnay with my girlfriend when I received the third proposal ... "Will you write my Match.com profile?" Now, this might not seem like that big of a deal, but to be thought of as someone who can put to words someone's life in 200 characters or so in order to meet Mr. Right, completed my trifecta of feeling special. We toasted to the high hopes of that profile at Mercadito after I hit save.

So here's the point. When you're in a relationship - when you're going through life and you hit the milestones, you can feel a little let down when they're over, and as my Aunt Dee Dee says, "have nothing to look forward to." But I've found, especially after this last weekend, that there are many big asks, and many big answers to come. (Including the one where I get to say, "I do" - the one that I will definitely say in Hollywood fashion.)

And perhaps it's just as fun to be the asker sometimes. So here's my first attempt - my first big ask, "Mommy Fischer, can we do girls weekends much more often? Ones that promise more shopping excursions, wine flights, organic dinners, conversations about short ribs, running tips, strolls with our future strollers, and hardy-har-har laughs?" 

 Hope that triggered some butterflies :)

Lo.

The Weiner

I used to be quite the frugal little girl. Every quarter I made from pulling kids around the street in our wagon, dollar my teeth earned, $20 allotment of allowance, $50 payment from babysitting, rounded up reimbursement from trips to Ruggeri's, and celebratory check I received, I deposited in my very low interest-yielding savings account at Dollar Bank. And I slowly, but surely watched my money grow from tens, to hundreds, to thousands. 

I was always enterprising, always looking for a way to make an extra buck, but without any plans to spend them. I just wanted to save it, count it and create new bank book entries with it. 

Somewhere in between the time when I was officially "out on my own" after college and when I gained a healthy obsession with cocktail dresses and nice shoes, I lost my frugal nature. Those thousands of dollars that I had worked hard for from age 2 to 22, started working hard for me and my entertainment budget. And soon enough, say around my sixth Ruth's Chris night out in MBA school, I noticed that the thousands I had saved had officially been strung out to a couple tens, and I was officially at the mercy of my tooth fairies.

Today, as a gainfully employed, ever maturing adult gearing up to marry a fiscally responsible banker, I have started to reclaim my frugality, and step by step I'm starting to learn once again how to save for a rainy day (or my dream kitchen.) Recently, I took some cost saving steps that I believe will help me contribute to our short and long term plans. Basically, I just cut ... and cut, and cut.

• I cut the two glasses of wine from my diet everyday. (I switched to gin and diet tonics with lime and mint) - - Cost savings of approximately $300 per month. (And calorie savings of 150-200 per night!) 
• Rent is about to expire - - Cost savings of $905 per month.  
• Gym membership terminated - - Cost savings of $30 per month
• Got rid of my antique Motorola Slivr cell phone and my 412 digits - - sad, but cost savings of $70 per month.
• And I just cancelled my Wall Street Journal subscription. I know, I love that Weekend Review, but throughout the rest of the week I just wasn't getting my bang for the buck (and the buck just increased to $115 quarterly!) - - Cost savings of $38 per month. 

Drum roll ... starting in August, that's a grand total of more than $1,300 per month. Now I just need to stay away from Neiman Marcus. 

So far, my budget cuts have served me well. But this week, one of them backfired, and hard. I was confident with my Wall Street Journal cancellation. See, I figured I would get my news other, more free places - NPR, Yahoo!'s homepage, my Mother's forwarded emails, my company's Media Minute (thanks Ashlee), Google Alerts, tweets, facebook feeds, Peter's commentary on the local news ... I was covered.

Tuesday, I got to work though and my boss - my BIG boss came over to my desk all excited and said, So what's up with Twitter?
As the subject matter expert for my organization, I gave him a look that said, okay, okay, what aspect of my job are you going to make fun of now...?
I mean Anthony Weiner. (Shaking his head.) What a scandal! He's going to have to step down. Can you believe it?
I panicked. Believe what? I didn't know what he was talking about. I was checking Twitter all day yesterday, I had listened to NPR on the way to work, I had just checked Yahoo! - but I had NO IDEA what scandal had gone down. CRAP!
He carried on, postulating this and that, and I nodded my head in agreement and deference, making a general statement here and there. (F!) 

When he went back to his desk, I quickly Googled the Weiner and found his scandalous story. How had I missed this?!

I'll tell you how ... my trusty news sources - the headlines that appear in my in-boxes and feeds - the information that doesn't go in one ear and out the other, is the stuff that interests and affects me. A man taking pictures of himself and posting them, was not being chatted about by the food writers and philanthropic advocates that I follow on Twitter. It wasn't being covered by my top Facebook feeds. My Yahoo! homepage had ten new weight loss tips as the leading promo box, not skeezy politicians and porn stars. My Mom's forwarded email had to do with a concert in Sarasota, Florida that my Aunt went to. And the only thing I remembered from NPR on the way to work was ... Oh God, I think I turned it off on Tuesday morning so I could listen to Neyo's new song over and over again. Geez.

All this made me realize something though - in this 24 hour news, information overload, constantly refreshed era, the news that actually reaches us tends to have nothing to do with World events. Instead we are versed on who's giving birth, who ate meatloaf for dinner, who's checking in at the hot spots, and the weather. Facebook, Google, Yahoo! and other Internet giants are actually ranking the news and data we receive based on our preferences, so the information that reaches us is more ego centric than ever. Unbiased news gathering actually takes time and energy, but in order to put your job, your  personal life, and your ideas into perspective, you really need to track it. 

So perhaps when you cut, you have to find alternative solutions. After all, I had found them for my other cuts. So to replace the Wall Street Journal, I'm going to dedicate time every morning to being a little more proactive in my news sourcing so I can arrive at work raring and able to talk about politics, sports, and the context behind how well our stock price is doing. Good. Lesson learned.

Now for the news that you have all been eagerly waiting for ... what did Peter and I have last night for dinner? We traveled vicariously to Brazil via Moqueca, a traditional Brazilian fish stew. Awesome.

Saute onions in olive oil, then add diced red pepper, paprika and red pepper flakes. Add tomatoes, green onions, salt and pepper and stew for five minutes.

Take out half the vegetables and lay pieces of Halibut or Cod that have marinated in lime juice, garlic, salt and pepper for 10-15 minutes on top of the bed of vegetables. Cover with the half that you have removed.

Add coconut milk and cilantro and let simmer for 15-20 minutes.

Serve. Smile. Watch Headline news afterward?

The Green Screen

It was a beautiful Sunday in Naperville. Just beautiful. It was hot and sunny and there was this perfect mild breeze. I was outside just about all day, enjoying every second of it.

I think Roscoe was done around noon though.

Sitting outside at Peter's house also meant that I was on display for all to see -  the center stage attraction for Naperville dog walkers, Centennial Beach goers, bikers, joggers, and Sunday real estate perusers.

A couple months ago, it was different. The little Adirondack nook where Peter and I hang out was shaded by huge Pine trees. (Dad, I don't recall the exact varietal.) Although the shade and privacy was nice, the dry needles that rained down on and the menagerie of rodents and birds that called the trees home got the better of us, so out they went. And into the open we went.

Without a green screen on Sunday, I stuck by more conventional activities. I read my new book (31 Bond Street - good one!) played with Roscoe, and sipped a martini or two (or three.) And I got to thinking ... reminiscing of green screens past.

I rewinded to a beautiful day in Pittsburgh, say about 22 years ago - a day where I would have been deep within one of my imaginary worlds, all made possible by the large shrubs that lined our house on Bartlett Street. They were hollowed out inside, with two or three distinct chambers that became bedrooms, dining rooms, store floors, kitchens, and classrooms in my mind. To the kids playing on the street below, the Bushes were just nicely coiffured accents to the house on the hill. They had no idea that there was a highly imaginative 6-year old inside, preparing meals, serving customers, and making deals. 

Those same kids playing on the street might have had imaginary friends, but I had imaginary businesses with imaginary customers. While their friends might have gotten tired, hungry or in need of a break. My businesses had services to provide and customers to please all the time - so I was in the Bushes working hard all the time. Inside I cooked elegant dinners and hosted dinner parties in my imaginary house, I managed imaginary hotels and restaurants, I sold greeting cards at imaginary card shops, I ran an imaginary boarding school for girls, I had an imaginary clothes shop, and I thought and plotted about different concepts and evolutions for each. While some of these business did actually return a customer and a quarter or two, mostly they had long, successful lives because I imagined them as such. 

In fifth grade we moved. And there were no bushes at the new house. What's worse, the people that bought our house on Bartlett Street, tore down the Bushes! While I was devastated, I took the clearing as an opportunity, and I took my ideas out into the open. I started preparing menus and serving my family at Chez Highmont, I made cards and scrapbooks for family and friends, I hosted special sister sales in my closet on a regular basis, and my boarding school, The Boston School for Girls, really took off (that's another story.) My Mom loved each and every one of my ideas and always told me that she would invest. My Dad, while a little more skeptical, would also encourage me by saying, "whatever you do, you're going to be successful." 

Yesterday, I realized that figuratively and literally the green screen at Peter's house had come down. The curtain that shielded the area where we used to secretly brainstorm, plot and plan, had been raised. An opportunity? Perhaps it was time to take our ideas into the open. So we hosted a dinner party and in my mind, 4 North West became a little taco joint. On the menu - 10-hour smoked carnitas, home brews, and the sweetest of honey bee cakes for dessert.

Mom, I might need you as an investor ultimately.

Lo.

The Big Idea

You know when you have one of those BIG ideas? The kind of idea that makes you smile to no one in particular while you are going for a walk in the morning. Then builds and makes you laugh quietly to yourself. Then expands into something huge and suddenly makes you sprint down the street so you can tell your fiance before he leaves for work at 7 a.m.?

Well ... this morning I had one and I did just that. I sprinted down Franklin Street only to find that Peter had already left. Boo. So my excitement went on reserve until I could tell him the big idea in the evening.

See ... it had been one of those weeks where every night brought with it a winning recipe. I had all the momentum going into Friday that Jess Thompson has every day.

Monday was grilled cod with fried chiles and garlic.

Tuesday we used the rest of the cod to make fried fish tacos with roasted tomato salsa, slaw, black beans, and guacamole. 

Wednesday was pasta with braised chicken and sage cream sauce. (and the camera ran out of juice)
Thursday was surf and turf (I got the surf, Peter got the turf) with a watermelon, tomato, jalapeno salad.
And Friday - the day of the big idea, brought pizza - made possible by a recipe from my artisanal bread baking book, my new pizza stone from Kassen, and my idea.

Okay, what's the idea? Sorry, but I really can't say. Basically, because I'm afraid you'll take it and run with it. So I'll leave you with this. You'll get hints of the idea as it unfolds on my blog over the next year or so. It will involve one of my passions, one of Peter's, and the stories that go along with them. And it's going to make me very happy, excited, giddy, and down right high on life all the time.

That's it. That's all I can write. But I did promise Kassen my pizza dough recipe.

Pizza Dough 
(FYI - this is the slow kind - the kind that is perfect for summer hour-Fridays, where you can let the dough rise for five hours and still go on a long walk with Claire and Ellie.)

Makes 4 individual pizzas

3 1/4 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon yeast
2 teaspoons salt
1 1/3 cups lukewarm water

Combine flour, yeast and salt. Add lukewarm water and stir until mixture just starts sticking together. Roll out on a lightly floured surface until the dough sticks all together, but not too smooth. Let it rest for 10-15 minutes. After resting, kneed the dough for 5-10 minutes until it is smooth and flexible.

Separate the dough into four equal pieces using a pastry scraper (thank you Missy). Roll each in flour, place on a tray, cover tightly and let rise for 5 hours or more.

About 45 minutes before baking, heat the pizza stone in a 500 degree oven. Prepare the toppings for the pizza. Tonight we went with wild mushroom, goat cheese and chorizo sausage pizzas. 

Bake for 7-10 minutes.
And enjoy (with a great home brew ; )

Lo.

The Best Weekend Ever

Last year, mid-May and mid Bloody Mary at Uncommon Ground, I firmly stated that the day, was in fact, going to be the Best Day Ever.

As a brander, this is a risky title. The "best" can be very hard to live up to. But in my mind it was easy calculation - a safe assumption. I had gone for a long run on Lake Michigan. I was enjoying a delicious organic brunch and the spiciest of morning beverages. And I was about to have a hysterical afternoon and evening with great friends in the bleachers of Wrigley, in the courtyard of Bernie's and over fried chicken at Stanley's. The day, the company, and the foggy memories lived up to their hype. It was an awesome day and I had a league of brand ambassadors ready to tee up again next year for another round of the Best Day Ever.

This year the same group came together over Memorial Day Weekend - for the Cubs, for a birthday party, and for all-out fun in Chicago. The weekend was of course preluded with the reminder that it had a legacy to live up to. Buzz in the form of excited texts, e-mails and voice-mails drove the hype and started making me nervous - skeptical that we could recreate and exceed our best. And this year it wasn't just being marketed as a day - it was a whole weekend. And not just any weekend, Memorial Day Weekend - a weekend that carries with it a history of bests. 

As a marketer, it's tough to compete with the previous product iteration and the promises it has made. Especially, when that product or experience has already been deemed "the best." Your consumers have already set their expectations very high, and they're wary as to whether or not the latest and greatest can compete.

Although my brand ambassadors were convinced of the weekend's ensuing success, I felt a little nervous. Memorial Day weekend has been the best many times before - Pittsburgh Golf Club pool season beginnings; trips to Las Vegas with the laxers; adventurous climbs outside of San Diego into unknown and unchartered housing developments with the same group of laxers (a climb that I will forever be in the doghouse for); and dance parties in L.A. with Gretchen and Tricia.

But I'm confident to say that we did it - we created a Best Weekend Ever.  The Stein-Cripps-Uncle Pete triple play delivered an outstanding Memorial Day weekend filled with good food, good friends, and fun, fun, fun. And I realized that perhaps there is a success equation for those trying to create their own.

Start with a promotional video - a teaser per se of what your audience might expect. This helps to build the excitement. And yes, the juggling of hot dogs just about happened that way.

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

(In case the video doesn't load) 

Whether its Kinnik's or Stein's - make sure there is a birthday during the weekend. Nothing, nothing says Best Weekend Ever better than a birthday cake or a best friend dancing at Margaritaville with balloons that have been dipped in whipped cream. (Mere will forever be in the doghouse for that one.)

Shopping is a must.
New blazer, new jeans (eek, that's A LOT now), rehearsal dinner dress - check.

Play caps. That is, take the cap off of your beer and put it on the shoulder of the unassuming rando next to you. Wait till he notices, gets annoyed, and confronts you. Tell him it's all good and as he walks away, and put another cap on his shoulder.

Honor those that have served. Yes, this person actually was at the bar.

Find the nearest laxer and make sure she meets up with you. Spotted this year - Mia and Mere in San Fran. Bridget and Lo at Big Star.

Baseball games are the way to go. But remember, Peanuts are cheaper on the outside.

Laugh. A lot. (If you need a catalyst, try Bridesmaids.)

Then start building the buzz for the next Best Weekend Ever ...  (that would be Labor Day Weekend.)

Lo.