Royally Jealous

I've been trying not to follow it - not to listen to it - not to look at it - but I couldn't help hearing snippets this morning.

In Starbucks ... 
Have you seen her?
Did you see her dress?
She looks beautiful!

On Facebook ...
Watching the Royal Wedding with a traditional English breakfast!
Love the dress!
Hey Jack, do you want to watch with me?
No thanks, I've seen Sleeping Beauty like 10 times!

In my apartment building the yummy mummies of Naperville actually had a Royal Wedding Watch - hats and all!

I opened my Yahoo! account to check my email, and of course, all the rotating promo boxes were of Kate - Kate in the car, Kate's bridesmaid holding her dress, Kate waving, Kate, Kate, Kate! So I took a look. I clicked through. And I looked her up and down.

Gorgeous.
Perfect.
Jealousy boiled up. 

There is a reason that I don't read fashion magazines anymore. There is a reason I don't watch that much TV. Basically, I hate seeing the perfection of all the beautiful people out there. Their perfect skin, physiques, smiles, nails, hair, clothes, and postures. It just makes me want to bite my nails even more. And the reason I avoided this perfect person in particular, is that her perfection is particularly unfair. That is, she is the girl in the world that really will get to be a pretty, pretty princess.

A princess that lives in a castle.
A princess that vacations in other people's castles.
A princess that doesn't have to run to the grocery store at the last minute because she forgot the 14-ounce cans of diced tomatoes.
A princess that doesn't get stressed out working for her Charity of Choice.
A princess that doesn't care if her prince is balding.
A princess that gets to wear hats and gloves everyday without being scrutinized for it.
A princess that can have whatever Greek Food Festival staple that she is craving delivered any time of the day.
A princess that looks beautiful all the time - awake and asleep.
You see - it's unfair. And in comparison I feel like I will be a lowly bourgeois suburbanite for the rest of my days while Kate gets to wave, sip high tea, crash champagne bottles, get serenaded by Elton John, wear Stella McCartney couture, hang out with the Beckhams, and produce more princesses. More princesses that will make my little girls just as jealous I'm sure.

But to be a good sport - and to help all the little girls out there feel proud and happy that they most likely will never become Royals - here's what's good about being an American plain Jane. 

• You get to take the calories saved from skipping high tea and deposit them in a glass of wine or two each evening.
• If you get a little tipsy off said glass of wine or two, no one will care. 
• Because you can't get Greek Food Festival delivery anytime you want, you will learn to make your own spanakopita (yep family, that's on the menu tonight.) 
• You can invest all the time you save from primping and posing into your sense of humor.
• And guess what, even though you're not going to be a princess (or duchess or any other royal label), you'll still get your own Prince Charming. And if you're as lucky as me - your Prince Charming won't be balding. He'll be brewing.

Lo.

A Prayer at Easter

On Sunday I walked past the ancient Sphinx and one of the great pyramids of Giza; I made a right by a castle full of jousting knights; I gazed out upon the overstated three mile stretch of mock architectural feats, rubbed the martini-saturated sleep out of my eyes, held Peter's hand and walked into the Shrine of the Holy Redeemer for Easter Mass. Dressed of course, in an Easter frock.

I found a place for us to sit - far, far to the right of a venue that accommodated thousands.
We sat down.
I looked up at Peter.
And he smiled.

The music commenced, and we joined in with just about all the Vegas Catholics, halleluiah-ing our way out of Lent. I looked up again at Peter who was fully participating, and said, "I love you." He smiled an even bigger smile.

On Good Friday when I went to Stations, all I could pray was "I'm sorry." But today the only thought, the only prayer, the only thing I wanted to sing was "thank you," and I said it over and over again. 
Thank you for Easter.
Thank you for Peter.
Thank you for my family.
Thank you for my friends.
Thank you for three days in the desert that were unbelievable.

I've been struggling to find an approach - an angle for a story that could wrap up Tia and Tom's wedding weekend. But I haven't been able to find a Fairy Tale, business principle, or cooking analogy that speaks for the magnitude of the celebration. No Disney princess gets her prince and a Michael Jackson impersonator; generally lavender studded champagne cocktails, martini stations, or Bloody Mary bars don't create efficiencies in the workplace; and the Tuscan peasant cuisine that I served for dinner last night was by no means comparable to the seven-course Bouchon feast that filled my heart, soul, and stomach on Friday night.

The best angle I have found for TNT were the prayers I said at Mass on Sunday. Yes, the "thank you's," but also another more eloquent one that I said right after Mass when Peter and I walked over to a little altar. I slid a dollar into the slot - the best bet I placed all weekend - and I pushed the button to light a candle (leave it to Las Vegas to electrify luminary devotion.) Behind the cove of candles was a bronze sculptural depiction of the wedding feast of Cana. We looked at it and then Peter and I said a silent prayer - this time I had more words in my mind.

I prayed for all my family and friends whose wedding celebrations I had attended in the past.

I prayed for a long, happy, love-filled marriage for Tia and Tom - a marriage that would include many more open house, dinner, and cabana parties; many more fully-clothed dives into the pool; many more impersonators, contortionists, and Vegas showgirls; many more photo booths; many more dances; and many, MANY more days and nights spent laughing with and at each other with their best friends surrounding them.

And I prayed for my marriage. (Now, just about 4 months away!) I prayed that it would be like the wedding feast of Cana - an analogy for heaven - a gathering of all our loved ones - a banquet with never-ending wine. I prayed for the same kind of magic that was with Tia and Tom all weekend. And I prayed that the fun of our special day would last a lifetime.
And Peter held my hand.
And I looked up at him.
And he said, "I love you."
And I said, "I know." 

Congrats TNT - and thank you for the best weekend ever! ; )

Lo.

5 Minutes

During Lent I receive little reminders from my Church each morning. They come to my Yahoo! inbox with the subject line: "Take 5 for Faith." The email contains a little reflection - something to put you on more solid ground as you go through your day. I tend to "take five" though while sitting at the five-minute traffic light at the intersection of 31st Street and I-83 that cramps my commute.

In Lents past - especially Lents spent on Notre Dame's campus - I tended to have an hour or more every day for faith. I went to daily mass, I went to confession, I prayed at the Grotto, and I actually helped carry heavy beams around campus during Living Stations of the Cross one year. But the past couple of years, between corporate America and commuting, weddings and wedding plans, running, blogging, cooking and cleaning, and a general lack of waking hours, I've only been able to offer five minutes each day. I know it's not enough. 

On Monday I found myself screeching to a halt, queuing up to sit at the lengthiest light, and reaching for my blackberry. There it was - my gateway to a faith-based moment. I opened it and it read:

Get your priorities straight
It was so over the top! What possessed Mary of Bethany to waste expensive oil to wash someone's feet and then-imagine!-allow her locks of hair to flow freely from her head covering and be used to dry a person's feet? "Scandalous" doesn't even come close to describing Mary's actions. For Jesus, however, that word didn't even come to mind. He saw the deep love and care Mary had for him, and he alone knew the fate he awaited. While not advocating disregard for people who are poor or squandering precious resources, Jesus reminds us about other important values, ones Mary so thoroughly illustrated. Don't be afraid to give in to abundant generosity, reckless hope, and head-over-heels love like Mary and like Jesus.

I stopped and thought.

I liked this one. A lot. I liked that the priority was to give, love, and hope above and beyond what we think possible. I liked that it didn't make me feel bad for missing 6:45 AM mass for the 4th Monday in a row. Instead, it reminded me that living the Gospel takes place outside of Church - it takes place on the road, in our cubicles, in our homes, and in our hearts. Perhaps the time that Peter and I dedicate to building and strengthening our relationship means that my commitment to faith each day is a little longer than I thought.

This afternoon I fly to Las Vegas for the grand finale of Lent. At first I thought this was just awful - how was I going to find solemnity and silent prayer on Friday and Saturday? How was I going to rejoice on Easter Sunday? How was I going to be holy in a city where people tend to embrace sin? But after Monday's reflection, I came to the conclusion that it is as perfect a place as any to be. Why? Because I'm there for a wedding - a celebration of selflessness, hope, faith and "head over heels" love. Basically, the same Christian values that we take away from Jesus' death and ressurection. The people I'm with will be taking time for faith in their own, human ways, and after time spent at the Shrine of the Holy Redeemer, I'll be partying with them.

Lo.

Attack of the 17-Pound Baby

I have always had weird dreams - but a couple nights ago, things got really weird.

Somewhere in between stress from work, visions of future dinner menus, and a new found (healthy) obsession with all the babies that are popping up in my life, I drifted away in sleep to a hospital bed outside the drive-thru window of a Dairy Queen. On one side my blackberry was buzzing and flashing its angry red light at me, and on the other side a Nurse Rathchet type handed me a 17-pound baby that I had apparently just given birth to. Incredulous, I asked her how it was possible? How was my baby 17-pounds?! She said it was normal for a girl like me. (A girl like me?!) Seconds later I found myself preparing dinner at a party I was hosting in this old tavern-like establishment straight out of A Tale of Two Cities. I was wrapping up chicken in aluminum foil to cook by the hearth and then accidentally wrapped the baby up in aluminum foil too. When I came back to check on the chicken, I found out that both the chicken and the baby were overdone. I woke up startled. Weirded out. Totally disturbed.

Typically, after a sound dream-filled slumber, I wake up rejuvenated and ready to face the day. But this REM cycle was a little too vivid and a little too off-setting. I had failed to appease my blackberry - my baby was branded with Dairy Queen, the competition - he was enormous - and I think I basically sent him to a death by overcooking! Eww.

So on Friday morning, groggy and troubled, I set out to make an impression on my nightmare - I set out to conquer that bad dream - to fix the concerns that had obviously surfaced in the oddest, most convoluted imaginary world possible. First, I faced work. It had been a tough week and a lot seemed to be boiling up and burning me. I had a courageous conversation. I stood up for myself. I got everything organized. And by 1:00 PM, I had returned to my "I'm Lovin' It" mantra that characterizes the sentiment about my job.

That evening I packed my bags with my gold super-star dress and took my mind off the potential buddha-esque baby that I might create some day and placed it on my in utero baby niece instead. On Saturday we showered her and her mom with tea and crumpets, white burgundy and bellinis, presents and more presents. My focus was on baby Fischer. (And a little bit on which outfit she would wear to all my wedding events.) It was on her mom and all the amazing family members I had before me. It was far from dreams of my own baby - who I'm sure will come in due time.

Nearly restored from my bad dream, I worked with Peter on dinner last night. It was a team effort. The goal - not to overcook things. Together we traveled far away from the nightmare - in fact, we traveled as far as Turkey via Peter's blue Weber grill and his new barbecuing around the world cookbook. We roasted an eggplant on the coals, and made Baba Ganoush with it, we made Turkish Pide, we roasted some chicken thighs with traditional Turkish spices, and everything turned out just right. No burning - no aluminum foil opening disasters - no terrifying sights. We kept careful watch over each ingredient - each stage of the process - and the final result was delicious.

Here's the thing - I used to look to dreams - to deep sleep - to cure the stress. But really, there's only one thing that kicks it in the butt - that is, tying up the loose ends in your real life that tend to become distorted into nightmares. And it sometimes helps to have a partner, an ally, to make sure that your i's are dotted and your t's are crossed, and that everything comes off the stove in a timely manner.

Sweet dreams.
Lo.

Judging

I swear, everyday my job presents something new - a new task, a new obstacle, a new opportunity. This week I had to put on a hoity-toity academia hat and become a judge. That is, I became a member of my organization's Hispanic scholarship application review committee. My task was to read and rate 50 applications - the creme de la creme of the thousands that my organization received. Then recommend four for the grand prizes.

This was definitely one of those new experiences and honestly, the extent of my knowledge of collegiate reviews lied in a partial NPR segment about admission round tables at Amherst. I was given certain criteria to follow - is the applicant a good student? Does he test well? Is he in need of financial assistance? Is he service oriented? Does he follow application instructions? Surprisingly, not everyone was able to follow instructions so of 50, 32 remained. And I was left with the task of recommending a handful for the four $100,000 scholarships.

These students had a couple pieces of paper to tell me why. They didn't get an interview, they didn't get to write their memoir, they got two pages. One page was basically fill in the blank: How did you do on your SATs? Did you dedicate every spare second of your day to helping those in need? Is your family below the economic poverty line? Are you the top student in your class? Do you belong and lead every Club at your school? Attach a recommendation from your teacher. Attach your transcripts. 25 out of 32 passed.

Then they had one page for their essay - their personal statement - their own customizable field where they had free reign to describe their heritage, struggles, accomplishments, and aspirations. As a marketing and communications professional, this was the crux point for me. This is what differentiated one student from the next. They all had experienced hardships - hardships that I can't even imagine - poverty, abuse, violence, racial discrimination. As presidents, valedictorians, and leaders of their schools, they had overcome these setbacks, and they all wanted to be the first generation of their families to go to an American university. They all wrote poignantly and passionately. But in the end, they all seemed the same. Even though I'm sure they were all very different, they didn't get to the person behind the paper.

There was one girl that did though - a girl that stood out. She was from suburban New York City who besides being in the top percentage of her class, an SAT ace, and an upstanding member of her community, was real, hysterical, and unafraid to tell us about her.

She had grown up glamorizing Spanish Harlem - the part of New York City where her Aunt lived. She aspired to be defined by the Hispanic lifestyle, clothes, and culture that the media tends to glorify. She put great efforts into making her self up, squeezing her self into, speaking, walking, and appearing ghetto fabulous. But in high school she had received a wake up call more or less - when visiting her Aunt one weekend she played witness to a violent crime in the center of her romanticized vision of Spanish Harlem. Following, she received comfort and console from her mother who told her that being Hispanic was not about what she looked like or how she talked - it was about being compassionate. Each of the words she put to paper brought this young lady to life, and I came to know and laugh with her. 

I gave her a 5. She got my endorsement. And I hope she wins one of the scholarships.

This whole review process - this whole character delimitation for representing your personage to a committee of judges - is everywhere. Throughout our lives we are given an elevator speech, 300 words of less, a lunch, or a couple check boxes to put our best foot forward. All we are trying to be - all we have been - is summed up, classified, and ultimately judged in five to ten minutes. And reviewing and judging this week, made me think about how I've presented myself over the years.

When positioning yourself you have to choose: Will you be silent? Will you not even apply and forgo the risk of being judged and unaccepted. Will you go with the norm? Will you settle for average and just fit in to the mold? Or will you tell it like it is? Will you be yourself and put that differentiating factor forward?

I remember having to submit "my profile" for the MBA class directory. We could submit a profile picture and list three of our interests. With that pervasive lack of confidence in standing out too much I went for the norm and listed my interests as:
Travel, Athletics, and Cooking.
Not much to my surprise 99% of the class had the same answers more or less. I had failed. I was just a run of the mill MBA student in that class directory.

And then there was that 1% that one stood out - one MBA candidate who knew the value of remaining an original. He listed his interests as:
Reef Aquaria, Salt Water Angling, and Home Brewing.

He ended up being Prince Charming. And yep, I got a winner.

I guess my advice for those submitting your position papers for review is to be yourself - to show a sense of humor - to tell it like it is. And by the way - I would like to re-position my interests as:
Marathon running, artisan bread baking, and blogging before the sun comes up.

Lo.

The Engagement of Rapunzel

I'm growing my hair out. It's been an 18 month process, but the concentrated effort really kicked in last September when I got engaged. What started as a bob that fell just below my ears is now half way down my back and honestly relatively unruly.

My pursuit of long, thick hair doesn't seem to be isolated to the bride in me though; instead it seems to be a universal bride gene. What also seems to be bridal in nature is that after the wedding, once each of us have lured in our princes with our lavish, long locks and are certain that they love us for more than our hair, we chop it off in an act of liberation from our own insecurity. 


This bridal idiosyncrasy seemed particularly ironic last weekend when I heard a juicy piece of gossip. On Sunday, mid-Bialy boasting session, my friend Kassen cut me off to tell me some information that was way more fascinating than the pride of my brunch. She was engaged. And not just engaged to Joe Shmoe - She was engaged to none other than Peter's' cousin and one of my first loyal Early Riser readers - Cousin Chris. The loud, lovable, laughable Cousin Chris. He had asked her in their favorite park in Alexandria, Virginia, right after, get this, Kassen had gotten a hair cut.


Okay, you don't get the irony maybe. Let me give you some Kassen background - some perspective per se on the pretty princess from the Potomac with the Rapunzel-esque hair.


On the lacrosse field there were a limited number of wardrobe factors that could be deemed intimidating. I mean the football players had tinted visors, the basketball team had arm and head bands, the hockey team had layers of stinky pads rendering their physiques larger than life, and we had what, little gold kilts and face masks? We were at a loss in terms of uniform adjustments, but what we did have was hair. Big hair. Long, braided, shiny hair, that to me was sign eternal that you had made it on the lacrosse field - that you were among the fierce, competitive, cut-throat lacrosse players.

When I walked onto the field Freshman year, I had anything but intimidating big hair though. In fact, I had the worst hairstyle imaginable, that I methodically, strategically, and compulsively manipulated into my signature "do" everyday.

My hair was cut to fall just below my chin. One would never know this though, because I never wore it down.  Instead, I pulled it up tightly into a high ponytail - a ponytail that did not capture all of my hair. I left two strands out in the front, parted them, and stretched them over my widow's peak making sure to clip both strands down to carefully cover the hated mark on my forehead. Then in the back, where half of my hair fell out of the high ponytail, I took my remaining stock of clips, and clipped all that hair up. On any given day, I used between six and seven silver clips, turning my hair into a virtual helmet - a shield against who knows what. I played lacrosse, went to class, went to dances, for goodness sake, I probably slept with my hair like this.

Then there was my teammate Kassen who had perfect hair and more importantly perfect lacrosse hair. She had the longest, blondest, best braided hair of all. It fell all the way down her back. She never had to straighten it or fill it with product, it was just naturally long, thick and lovely. And to prove my point about it being intimidating, she was the only freshman starter on my team. She was like Rapunzel and the guys would line up in the stands to watch Kassen's braid bounce down the field, hoping that perhaps they might be the prince that latched on and made the climb.

All year long freshman year, I couldn't understand why the guys were clamoring after her while I couldn't get one of my crushes to give me the time of day. As I assessed my lack of success on and off the field, I deduced that it was attributed to one thing - the hair factor. Had I not assembled a coat of armor on the back of my head everyday, had I grown it long and died it blond, perhaps I too would have been attracting the likes of the hottest basketball player in ND history.

I learned. Slowly. Very slowly. And by sophomore year, I was growing my hair out, Kristen was straightening it, I was making strides on the lacrosse field, and a random tennis player even kissed me.  Yeah, there were still no basketball or football players though.


Kassen's hair kept growing and glowing. And although she lived far from the stone tower where Rapunzel's enchantress locked her up, her tower of perfection was where every guy on campus wanted to be. Her hair dangled down and there were a couple princes that gave it a good shot - but when she doubted things, she cut it short - literally, and donated it to Locks of Love.

Shorter coif and all, Cousin Chris persevered. Maybe because he immediately saw her for much more than her hair. He saw her for her smile, her love of life, her grace, her kindness and generosity, her perfect peanut butter blossoms, and oh ... and that she was all he ever wanted to marry - "a sweet, skinny, southern girl." Chris saw in Kassen what our lacrosse team did - that she was the nicest person in the world and deserved the nicest guy in the world to match.

On Sunday, just when Kassen was super sure that she didn't need her Rapunzel hair to keep Chris climbing, she got it cut. And just like that, Chris proposed. (And I'm pretty sure they'll live happily ever after...)

And by the way, yes, I'm still growing out my hair. No, I will not be wearing clips on my wedding day. And yes, I am chopping it Mia Farrow style the day I get back from my honeymoon.

Lo.

Natural Woman

When I was young there were certain female prototypes that defined what being a woman looked and felt like. I found them on the television, in the movies, and in the magazines my Mom read while we waited for our hair cuts. There was one in particular that still stands out.

She was in a commercial for Levi's Jeans I think - a commercial that I must have watched a hundred time - or at least as many times that I watched our home-recorded version of Sound of Music. In it she exits a New York City cab in the pouring rain wearing a too tight little black dress, stiletto heels, and drapes of jewelry. She runs through the rain and into her apartment as Aretha Franklin's famous ballad, "Natural Woman" starts to crescendo. When shes safely inside she rapidly strips off her evening ware, puts down her long, wavy auburn hair, and slides into her favorite pair of jeans and over-sized shirt. She sits by the window of her one-bedroom apartment, looking out at the rainy city, weaves her hand through her hair, smiles, and Aretha belts out, "You make me feel like a natural woman .... uh huh."

That was the woman I wanted to be and look like for much of my childhood. In my mind, she was perfect.

Yesterday I felt 100% less than perfect - 100% not my Jeans model idol. In fact, yesterday was one of the worst days in a while. I had elected not to vent last night, but today given a little time to spare while the Pate Brise chills, I figured I might as well get it all out.

On Wednesday night, or more accurately Thursday morning, I didn't sleep well. I was rolling around from 1:00 AM to 4:30 AM with just about the worst set of cramps I have ever experienced. This kind of "womanly" stuff never, ever used to happen to me, but it's surfaced with a vengeance recently.

Tired, I forced myself to run to get the crankies out and to decompress before seeing Dr. Evil, my dentist.

At 8:30 AM I was in an all too familiar dentist chair being shot-up with oral anesthetics from all directions - top right, top left, and bottom left were all put to sleep and then shot-up again sending the better part of my entire face into the REM cycle of anesthesia. I literally had no sensation from my neck to my ears. Then I was drilled and filled, drilled and filled, four times over. As if I hadn't spent enough money at Dr. Evil's office, he told me that I needed to order a custom night guard now, because I was grinding like crazy.

At 10:15 AM I was in my cube. Numb, hungry and in my cube. I tried eating a yogurt, except I literally could not make my mouth eat it. I was like the young office employee who suddenly had a stroke. I kept trying, and trying, I think I got some down, but then I started to choke. I ended up in the bathroom coughing and realizing that my face was a complete mess. I had pink stuff ALL OVER it and had literally seen half the department on the way from my desk to the bathroom.

At 11:00 AM my boss wanted to talk to me about the Intranet project I am managing. It went something like this:
Where are we?
I alked o oie ah aiigh, uuuuh!
What is wrong with you?
ma mah i ummmb
Okay, let's talk later. 
(Immediate worry that I had failed miserably.)

The anesthesia turned to a headache as Pre-Cana called and told me that I failed to pay the $75 that was necessary to "complete" the class. I was unaware of said $75 and at this point was a little outraged.

That initial headache continued to get worse as every time, EVERY TIME I went to use the bathroom throughout the day, there was an employee hanging out in the same small Ladies Room talking on her cell phone. Now I'm sure the people on the other end of each of those calls did not want to hear my or any other stall-user's all-natural soundtrack. And as an instrumentalist, I was by no means prepared or willing to broadcast my efforts through the air waves. So three out of four bathroom breaks were fruitless.

Last night, when I got home, I was tired, crabby, so over Thursday, and so not that fun to be around. I wanted Friday. Better than that, I wanted the end of Friday. I wanted to slip on my jeans and over-sized shirt, let down my hair, toss it around, and wail Aretha Franklin style.  

All I have to say is that I'm there. Right now. In my new favorite GAP skinny jeans and my blousy J-Crew tee having a glass of Pouilly-Fuisse, just about ready to take the dough out the refrigerator and mold it into a quiche shell. I also feeling like the better version of the woman I used to idolize. And you know what that feels like? It feels like conquering all the pain, BS, wackiness, and worries of this world. It feels like realizing that at the end of the day only a couple things matter: Being with the ones you love, having a great meal, fitting into your favorite pair of jeans, and oh yeah, disconnecting, so you can connect with the people that are present right here, right now.

Good night.

Lo.

Pollyanna Cake-Baking

One of my favorite movies growing up was Pollyanna. I loved Haley Mills - she was like my child-actor idol (except she wasn't really a child anymore when I was watching her movies); I loved Aunt Polly and the scene where she let her hair down - her beautiful, shiny, long brown hair that she always kept tightly wrapped in a Victorian bun; I loved that kid that was in every Disney movie; I loved learning about prism charms and cadbury jam; And I loved, LOVED the kitchen full of perfect prize-winning layer cakes that Cook made for the Carnival.

They were simple cakes - some white and yellow, others caramel and chocolate. They were each made up of three moist layers, evenly iced, fondant and adornment free, perfect. My sister and I used to drool. I've always wanted to have one of those cakes in my kitchen ...   

 

And take a BIG bite out of it in a white maritime-inspired dress just like Pollyanna. 

So this past weekend - a completely unstructured weekend - I set out to make a perfect Pollyanna-cake for my new niece's 2-week birthday. 

Now, I'm sure you all know by now how much I like to cook - how critical the craft is to my each and every day. But what you may not know is that I also love to bake. I've been baking since I learned how to make Hello Dollies at the age of what six or seven? I just don't bake a lot anymore. In fact, I've been staying as far away from it as possible. Why? Because I have a fear - a quite hefty fear in fact. A fear of the preparation and consumption process. More specifically, I'm afraid that when I'm preparing the baked good I'm going to lick every last inch of the bowl (and spoon) and that when it comes time to eating the finished product, I'm not going to be able to stop.

I'm part of a legacy of baker's though - cookie, cake, bread, pie, and pastry bakers. Sweet treats by the dozens, pounds, and layers start and finish just about every family holiday party. I even have an Aunt who could have stolen all of Cook's business at the Carnival had she opened her own cake stand. So to be a good Aunt and someday mother in the tradition of the ones I learned from, I believe I have a responsibility to uphold the baking tradition - batter addiction or not.

On Saturday I warmed up with the savory - a much safer option, although I did eat some of the raw dough. I made Bialys - which are like a cross between an English muffin and a bagel. They brought out the subtle Jewish heritage in me that was a large part of my upbringing in Squirrel Hill and paired perfectly with Peter's home-smoked salmon. 

On Sunday I went for the glory. I set out to make a cake that would make Aunt Polly proud and Ellie's second week on Earth grand. I turned to my blogger-idol, Smitten Kitchen for a good recipe. Found one - her best birthday cake recipe - the one she mastered for her little girl. And I started making it.

Enter the next problem - the other reason I don't bake. I don't have an egg beater, a food processor, or an electric mixer. Instead, I have a massive right shoulder that can cream butter and whip an egg like you wouldn't believe. I have made stiff peaks from heavy cream with this shoulder - don't doubt it's abilities. But it is freaking exhausting! I motored through though - I creamed, beat, whipped, and blended an array of ingredients into batter and then evenly poured it into two 9-inch round pans.
And then I looked at the bowl.
And the bowl looked at me.
And I said, "NO!" 
My "No" lasted about 3 seconds.
I licked the whole bowl.
And the spoon.

After the cake came out of the oven, I started on the sour cream chocolate icing. Now, I should have been totally safe from bowl licking here since I gave up chocolate for Lent. But the evil Lo on my left shoulder whispered to me, "Sundays don't count." When Peter came in from working outside, and noticed chocolate all over my face, I was guilty as charged.
"Man, you really went to town on that one."
(So not what I want my fiance to say to me ...)

After the icing and cake cooled, I set out to level and ice it. My goal was perfect evenness and smoothness - perfect Pollyanna-ness. Usually I get crumbs all over the icing and it's lopsided, but the cake Gods were with me. They knew I was already suffering through an icing-induced stomach ache - that this was for a special occasion - that I was going to put this cake on my blog. And oh my Cake God, I made a Pollyanna cake!

That wonky-eyed look is nausea from the icing ...

Look Peter!!
Good job.

Basically, I'm just proud of myself. And as a Millennial I need that pat on the back confirmation that I did an A+ job, AND since my parents aren't here to give it to me, I'm letting Lo write it out. I'm proud of myself for two reasons: First, that I made a cake that my Aunt Joyce would be somewhat impressed by; Second, that I didn't let my bowl-licking problem stand in the way of what really matters - showing someone you love them by giving them something that you made with your hands and heart.

Oh and three, that I didn't eat ALL of the cake on the same day. The piece that Peter and I got to take home with us stayed safely wrapped up in his refrigerator, so I could return to it several times throughout the week.

See girls, there's a good reason for not living with your fiance before you're married - you can keep leftovers at his house, not sneak an extra piece before going to bed, and fit into your wedding gown! 

Lo.

The Girl Friend

Snow White had seven laboring men with Napoleonic complexes.
Cinderella had some mice.
Sleeping Beauty had three old batty fairies.
Ariel had a fish, a lobster and a seagull. 
And Belle had a bunch of magically animate, inanimate objects.  
Okay, what's wrong with this picture?

None - not one of the beautiful heroines that I grew up admiring had good girl friends. Granted, each princess got her man - her best friend for life - but her "happily ever after" never included a posse of girlfriends to turn to when she needed a morning tennis buddy, an afternoon gossip ally, and a late-night dancing partner.  Instead they turned to the odd mix of characters described above for camaraderie. Why? Because making girlfriends is very hard. Harder than finding Prince Charming. (And the girls in their lives, and even in the next village over were mean, dumb, downright evil, or just plain non-existent.)

Over the past two or three years, I've been feeling like I'm approaching the same fate as my favorite Disney starlets, which for someone who grew up in a fairytale land made up entirely of girls, seems unbelievable.

I used to be surrounded with girlfriends - in fact, for 25 years they were all I knew. In high school - "date night" translated into eight Ellis girls showing up at SOBA for dinner; Homecoming meant the same eight Ellis girls dancing with each other in a circle; and Prom meant five of the eight of us having random dates who were promptly dismissed so we could all still dance with each other in a circle. College was pretty similar except the circle-up dance parties were lacrosse-exclusive and happened in crappy bars and slum-lord managed housing. My boyless world was wonderful though - There were no breakups or heart breaks, the drama was far less dramatic then it is today, and each night climaxed in uninhibited goofiness and laughter that no boy could ever understand.
 
Today, I have Prince Charming (which honestly still amazes me) but all my girlfriends are gone. They are scattered across the U.S. - from West Coast to East Coast, from South to North, everywhere in between, but not in Naperville. Yes, I call, Facebook, email, text, tweet and send telepathic messages to them just about every day, but their presence, my ability to call them up and meet them for a cup of coffee, a morning jog, or a girl's night cocktail (which hopefully leads to dancing) is gone. And it is DAMN HARD to meet new girls and make new girlfriends.

You thought finding a boyfriend was hard. Well finding a girlfriend - a good girlfriend - is way harder! For the past two or three years, I feel like I've gone through online and offline rigors to meet Ms. Right. But those little signs - those weird idiosyncrasies you used to put aside in the guys you dated - become way worse in girls. You spot them, you calculate the amount of time you left between work, preparing gourmet dinners, and running hundreds of miles to nurture your potential relationship, and you think, this is SO not worth it. Bam, it's over.

It was just about a year ago - I had been through a series of blind dates per se, and I was hesitant to go on this latest one. I walked into the restaurant, looked around, nervously shifted my stance as I waited - then she came in ...
Ashlee? 
Lo?
Yep. 
Yeah. 
Where do you want to sit? 
Umm ... here's good.
We ordered. We sat down. She went to bathroom. I saw her phone. And the picture on it. And I smirked. The picture was of her and her brother. Smiling. BIG smiles. Dressed entirely in Steeler gear. Waving their Terrible Towels at Heinz Field.  I have a very similar picture.

During lunch we hardly ate. We didn't stop talking. Talking Pittsburgh and the amazing immediate bond that Pittsburghers have. And laughing. In fact, we ran over our Outlook appointment time-slot. We've been friends since - the kind of friends that go dancing together; that can make the Ghettos of Chicago much less scary; that toast each others victories; that gossip; and that have the same sense of Yinzer humor. Girl, is it refreshing!

While I still live in a kingdom with Prince Charming, loving family members, and friends in the form of little gnomes and wilderness animals,

I need girl friends. Girls need girlfriend. And I'm so happy that this past week I had the chance to bond with not just one, but two girlfriends, who I predict will be part of many dance circles to come. And I'm so excited for Girls Night Out next Saturday!

Lo.

Eat it!

It was the night before the big game - - ND vs. Stanford. We board the bus and make the short commute from our hotel to the alumni-sponsored dinner du jour. We arrive at Buca di Beppo - Yum (sarcasm included.) I had never been to this restaurant before - never participated in the family-style "fun" that was about to unfold - but like any other pre-game feast, I had come with the intention of eating.

I drew the short straw and ended up sitting next to my coach. My friend Dani was on the other side. Five minutes in, about half way through my 36-ounce Diet Coke, it started coming. Pasta dish after pasta dish. Parm dish after parm dish. We started passing - passing and passing - everything was red, heavy, nauseating. As I received a dish, took a look and passed on, the stares started accumulating.

Okay, what are you eating? 
You can't just eat salad!  
Pass the Chicken Parm to Lo!
We have a game tomorrow - eat!
Where's the Chicken Parm - Give it to Lo! 
We have a dispensation - eat the Chicken Parm!


Back and forth it went - Dani and Coach trying to verbally inject me with the highly caloric fare.
Nervous, uncertain, full of emotions welling up inside me, I tried to defend myself.

I'm good - I just want the salad - That doesn't appeal.

My efforts drew a shorter straw than I had before we sat down for dinner. And the peer pressure and pestering continued.

Eat the Chicken Parm!
Hey waiter, can we have some more Chicken Parm. 
EAT THE CHICKEN PARM!

Somehow I made it out of the restaurant without being force fed. Yes, there were looks of disappointment - doubt that I would be able to make it through a game without a heaping portion of the hearty sustenance - confusion at why I passed it up. But I slept well that night knowing that I had stayed within my comfort zone.

I had lost 20 pounds in Italy - my sabbatical from lacrosse per se - a time in my life when I came to know a lot more about me - the person behind the lacrosse stick. And I wasn't about to beef up again. I had a new nearly vegetarian diet that worked. Just as I had made it through long walks from my apartment to school in Trastevere, runs around the Circus Maximus and strength training sessions alongside the stinky, spandex-clad Italian men at the gym, I managed to make it through the game - I managed to contribute two goals - I managed to help lead our team to a win. I did it fueled on veges (and the box of Cheerios I stole from the hotel, placed in my stick bag, and dove into during halftime.)


Ironically, my friend Dani, the same one who bullied me to consume Bucco di Beppo's signature Chicken Parmesan, asked me to send her some recipes for Fridays in Lent - recipes that would appeal to her pregnant self and her husband. Tonight I'm recommending Eggplant Parmesan to her - a lighter, better, vegier version of the dish I passed up 8 years ago - a Dish that will fuel whatever big game plans you have for Saturday. And it's actually the same dish I made for my Roman roommates in our little apartment nearly a decade ago.

Ingredients:
Small eggplant - sliced into 1/8 inch rounds
Egg - whisk in a small bowl.
Course bread crumbs - put about a cup in a small bowl.
Olive oil
3 garlic cloves minced
1 shallot minced
Salt, pepper, crushed red pepper flakes
12 ounce can whole plum tomatoes
One plum tomato
Fresh Mozzarella
Parmesan Cheese
Basil
Parsley

Directions:
Dip the eggplant slices in egg, then bread crumbs. Pan fry them in olive oil over medium heat - about two minutes per side or until golden brown. Remove and set aside.
Saute garlic and shallot in new round of olive oil for three minutes.
Add tomatoes, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Simmer on low heat for 10-15 minutes
Arrange one layer of eggplant - top each eggplant with a slice of plum tomato, piece of basil, and mozzarella cheese - repeat for one (or two more layers). Top with chopped parsley and Parmesan cheese. Turn to low, simmer for 30-45 minutes.

Serve. And in the immortal words of Coach, you and my Uncle Mike - "EAT IT!"

(Didn't get a photo of the finished product - we were too hungry!)

Lo.