My 7 Links ...

Mary Tyler Mom tagged me to take part in My 7 Links, which appears to have been making the rounds for some time.

It was sweet of her to tag me, a reminder that this little outpost in cyberspace is actually visited by folks from time to time. I don't contemplate who's reading. I just write.

I've been writing – blathering, I like to call it – for damn near 7 years now. So it took a little doing to think of which posts to include here. My brain isn't as sharp as it used to be. If my brain were a knife, it might not be able to cut Play-Doh.

But I thought for a bit and some posts came to mind. And then I wrote a post that Mary Tyler Mom pimped on her Facebook page and all hell broke loose with my traffic. So, that post warrants a nod here now.

The goal of My 7 Links? "To unite bloggers (from all sectors) in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again."

So then ... .

Most Beautiful Post: Joyous. This was written about three and a half years ago and a lot has changed since then. Not that my life has become less joyous, but rereading this post is a potent reminder that some things that feel very real and forever sometimes go away.

Most Popular Post: Komen, I Give Up. This was written just last week, the night the news broke that Koman was severing its ties with Planned Parenthood. I don't often post links to my posts on Facebook and Twitter, but I posted this link and the hits started coming. And then Mary Tyler Mom posted the link on her Facebook page and 60 of her fans shared it and the next thing I knew, my hits headed into the thousands, which never happens to any of my posts. And I'm OK with that. Like I said, I write for myself mostly. It was fun, though, to watch the stats climb. Thanks, Mary Tyler Mom. And sorry, Mike Rowe; Komen stole your spotlight. But based on comments, Mike's still my post popular post. (Most people arrive at it because they query – no pun intended – "Mike Rowe gay" in a search engine. My post appears on the first page of results. The comment section on that post is quite the "Yes, he is!" / "No, he isn't!" tennis match. For the record, I think he's straight, but I don't frankly care. He's handsome. He's funny. And he has a voice that makes me melt. Gay, schmay. Straight, schmaight. Whatever.)

Most Controversial Post: It Matters Not. This was written the night Gabby Giffords was shot. It is not my most controversial post based on comments, because I did not allow comments on that post. Sometimes, as with my Komen post, I use my blog to make statements. I do not wish to engage with the other side and I do not need, although I appreciate them, congratulations from those who share my views. Some of my friends weighed in with me privately. One disagreed with me. But I stand by every word I wrote that night.

Most Helpful Post: Sump Pumps And Sadness. This was written two months after the death of my dear friend Dave as I tried to understand how my psyche was processing the grief of losing him. Mostly, this post was helpful for me. But it was helpful for others, too. I'm very fond of my sump-pump analogy.

Post Whose Success Surprised Me: Muse Of The Moment. This was written because the idea behind it was too amusing to not pursue. I think of it in terms of "success" insofar as it led to a baking and blogging adventure with Angelo that continues to this day.

Post That Didn't Get The Attention It Deserved: Who I Am And Who I Am Not. This was written, in part, and then tucked away and then finished when the time felt right. It's a long mutha, and more confessional than I tend to be. But no one's life is always sunny. And I would be a fraud to only blog the bright spots in my life. I'm so grateful when I read a heartfelt post by someone and think, "Yes! That!" It's such a comfort to know that someone else has felt the same way. So this was my offering in that vein.

Post I'm Most Proud Of: L.A. Dave. This was written a few hours after I learned that my dear friend Dave had passed away. Three years ago, impossibly, just a few days back. I'm proud of this post, though "proud" feels like the wrong word. Dave's family asked if they could use this post as the eulogy at his memorial service. His aunt read it because I knew I couldn't. But I was very honored that they asked and so grateful to be able to share the Dave I knew with a bit of the wider world.


And finally, as part of the challenge, I pass the virtual baton to five other bloggers. They may never see this. (They may not read my blog.) Or they may not have the time. That's fine. I consider these tags invitations but also a way to let them know that I enjoy the glimpses they provide into their lives. More please, blogger friends. More.

My 5 Blog Nominations, in alphabetical order, numbers first:

37 days

angelo:HOME

Life As A Plate

The Thrifty Chicks

Random Esquire

Makes Beth Happy, February 5 ...

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Foist!
No commentary needed. Though I keep thinking of it as "first," also.

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Lemon-Ricotta Bars

Lemon and cheese together? Sign. Me. Up.


And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

New England Shaker Nesting Tables

I appreciate a well-made, simple form rendered in beautiful wood with lovely joinery.

Parting Thoughts On Komen ...

News about Komen's "reversal" hit yesterday just as I was about to walk out the door.

I read the statement. And I thought it was very artfully written. I thought the language was meant to quell the current outrage but leaves the door open to deny Planned Parenthood funding in the future. And then I thought, "Komen wouldn't be that stupid, would it?"

Maybe it would. Will. Time'll tell.

I'm stunned at how badly the organization has played this. From "quietly" ending funding to Planned Parenthood in December – Did it really think this story would not come out eventually? – to telling multiple versions of the "truth" as to why the decision was made – It was because of the Congressional investigation! But this isn't a political decision! No, it wasn't that at all! We want to fund more direct care! See? This is not a political decision! Whoops! You weren't supposed to find out that Ari Fleischer was a consultant! – to "reversing course," if indeed that's what it's done.

Way to go, Komen. Now you've managed to piss off everyone. No small feat, that.

This week has been a sad, emotional education. Friends and family have expressed their condolences, as it were, over my loss of something that I believed in. And I appreciate their kind words. They're sweet. And I respond with reassurance that while this is unfortunate, I met some of the most amazing people in the world through Komen, and I've done something I did not think I could do. And those are good things. Those are great things.

And meanwhile, I've educated myself about the organization in ways I should have educated myself before. And I've come to appreciate that the best use of my charitable dollars – what few there are these days, but someday there will be more – is to contribute them directly to causes in which I believe. I know that no organization is perfect. But from this day forward, I will be more diligent in gathering information about charities and contribute to those groups, not to organizations that raise funds and then disperse them. (I still believe in the Greater Chicago Food Depository and Kiva.)

I feel as though I should apologize to everyone who has contributed to my fundraising for Komen over the years. I feel as though I should have known better, learned more. But then I think that surely some of those dollars went on to help someone, and there is solace in that.

As for Komen, I'll be interested to see what becomes of it. Whether or not the organization has fundamentally changed, people's perceptions of it certainly have. I presume the races and walks will continue. I wish the participants well.

Life After Komen ...

Every blister was a lie.

That's how I feel tonight, 48 hours after writing my post about giving up on Komen.

I've spent a good part of the past two days learning things I should have known for the past 10 years.

But I wanted to believe.

I walked my first 3-Day in 2001, three weeks after September 11th. Maybe that heightened everything. Maybe the feel-good atmosphere was rarified air that I desperately needed to breathe. Maybe it was seeing Adam, who had been missing from my life for too long. Maybe it was the pink sorority I pledged for those few days. Maybe it was the need to be a part of something bigger than myself, to feel the palpable power of numbers and good.

I walked my second 3-Day in 2005. I had fallen away from the event when Pallotta TeamWorks shut down, after Avon used Pallotta's framework to begin its own series of events. It was ugly. I should have seen the ugliness as a sign. But I didn't. In the fall of 2004, I had met Brooke Ellison. I was at the premiere of "The Brooke Ellison Story," Christopher Reeve's last film. I was in the green room afterward, waiting for my friend Marlea who was doing the publicity for the event. I paced while I was waiting, and then suddenly stopped. I realized, in that moment, that I was able to pace, that I was able to walk, unlike Brooke, who I would meet in person just a few moments later. That night, I vowed to walk the 3-Day every year until a cure was found.

I walked every year – 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010 (I was registered for, but had to skip, 2011) – and each year, friends and family supported me, many monetarily, some logistically. One friend was very honest and told me that she could no longer support Komen but that she wanted to support me, so she didn't contribute money, but gave of herself instead. From her perspective, Komen and all it stood for had become nothing but a business, and as a business, she believed, it wasn't in their financial interest to find a cure. I remember being taken aback by her cynicism.

But she wasn't being cynical so much as I was being naive.

I know that now.

Still, I walked. Every year. Events lost a bit of their luster for me. The route doesn't vary from year to year. Once 3-Day staffers have secured permissions from municipalities, they don't reinvent the wheel. So the route became rote, but I met new people on every event.

The people. The amazing people.

I lost touch with Pat, the woman with whom I walked my first event in 2001. But I met Catherine on the route in 2005 and we still exchange Christmas cards. I met Erin, Shel, and Mike in 2006. We're all still in touch. The group who adopted me in 2007 and I have mostly lost touch, but I met Amy in 2008 and she is one of my dearest friends. She walked again in 2009. It was nice to begin an event with someone I knew. In 2010, I was on my own again, but I met a couple of girls at Opening Ceremonies, first-timers. And on the route, I met Michael, a force of nature. And later, his wife Monica. We're still in touch, too.

They are what I am holding on to now as everything I wanted to believe about Komen disintegrates by the hour.

Nancy Brinker has done the most to disillusion me. I was on the event in Chicago in 2009 when her son told us that President Obama had awarded her a Presidential Medal of Freedom. You've never heard such cheering.

Today, I wondered if he was rueing that decision.

The more I hear her talk, the more I hear her try to spin the decision to sever ties with Planned Parenthood ("This is not a political decision," she says. It's ostensibly based on an investigation happening in Congress. How much more political can you get?), the more I hear her sound like the politician she's become (George W. Bush appointed her Ambassador to Hungary), the heavier I sigh.

It is indeed a business. An enormous business. I find much of the merchandising behind it annoying and opportunistic – no, I don't need a pink KitchenAid mixer, thank you very much – and some of it downright disgusting.

Did you know that Smith & Wesson donates a portion of its proceeds from the sale of a pink-handled pistol to Komen?

I cannot tell you how much I wish I was making that up.

Look closely. You can see a ribbon on the barrel.

The absurdity of it is almost too much to comprehend.

I've heard the laments from women over the years who decried October and its requisite painting of pink. "But we're trying to help them," I told myself.

I truly thought we were. Helping them, I mean.

But for all the years and all the money and all the research, we still don't have a cure. Today, 1 in 8 women will battle breast cancer.

The question is: Why?

This film should provide some answers. In an astonishing stroke of perfect timing, "Pink Ribbons Inc." arrives in theaters in Canada tomorrow.

Watch the trailer. See if you get as incensed as I did when you see that the first-ever breast-cancer ribbon was salmon and how it came to be pink.

And read "Cancerland" from Barbara Ehrenreich. It was written in 2001. Nothing has changed for the better. It's only gotten worse.

I still believe in a cure.

I still believe in a world without breast cancer.

But I now believe that walking there isn't the way.

Good Times, February Edition ...

The February cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Browned-butter Scotch-glazed Madeleines. Oh, yes, you read that right: They're glazed with powdered sugar and Scotch!

Komen, I Give Up ...

At the end of every 3-Day, the host repeats, with increasing conviction, "We will never give up."

Never give up on finding a cure, that is. A cure for breast cancer.

And I will never give up on finding a cure.

But today, after many years, I gave up on Komen.

You may or may not have heard that the Susan G. Komen Foundation will no longer give money to Planned Parenthood in accordance with its policy that it does not fund organizations that are under Congressional investigation. (From the New York Times: "A spokeswoman for the Komen foundation, Leslie Aun, told The Associated Press that the main factor in the decision was a new rule adopted by Komen that prohibits grants to organizations being investigated by local, state or federal authorities. Ms. Aun told The A.P. that Planned Parenthood was therefore disqualified from financing because of an inquiry being conducted by Representative Cliff Stearns, Republican of Florida, who is looking at how Planned Parenthood spends and reports its money.")

ACORN, anyone? ACORN? Anyone can say – and has said – things about organizations in order to vilify them, in order to cut their funding, in order to dismantle them. Truth need not matter. Words have great power, both words that convey truth and words that convey untruth. Sometimes, the latter is more powerful than the former. ACORN is gone. And Planned Parenthood has been dealt several severe blows of late.

The right wing of this country clearly has it in for progressive organizations. In 2010, the right campaigned – successfully – on the issue of job creation. In 2011, 80 new abortion restrictions were enacted. States passed 162 new measures for reproductive rights in the first half of last year.

Senator Jon Kyl famously stood on the floor of the Senate chamber and stated that "well over 90 percent of what Planned Parenthood does" is provide abortions. Way to lie into the Congressional record, Senator.

In fact, only 3 percent of services provided by Planned Parenthood are abortion related.

Three percent.

Not 90 percent.

Three.

His office later commented that Senator Kyl's absurd claim was "not intended to be a factual statement."

In other words, it was a lie.

Also, from Huffington Post: "Komen's new vice president, Karen Handel, had run for governor of Georgia in 2010 on an aggressively anti-abortion and anti-Planned Parenthood platform."

So is today's news coincidence? Of course not.

But this is not a post about abortions. Abortions make up a very small percentage of the services and procedures performed by Planned Parenthood.

Do you know what Planned Parenthood provides a lot of?

Cancer screenings.

Breast cancer screenings.

Breast cancer affects 1 in 8 women in this country. Komen has raised billions of dollars over the years. The amount it gave to Planned Parenthood was small, but that small number enabled Planned Parenthood to provide a lot of services.

It is unconscionable to me that an organization founded on the promise to find a cure for breast cancer would eliminate funding for an organization that is, for many women, their only source of healthcare.

Over the years, I have participated in seven 3-Day events. I have walked more than 400 miles on those events. I have raised nearly $20,000 for Komen.

That ends today.

Many friends have voiced their concerns about aspects of Komen. Until today, I chose to focus on the good it was doing, knowing that no organization is perfect.

But this is a step too far.

I have friends who have registered for Komen events this year. They are left not knowing what to do. I advised them to call Komen and cancel their participation, to eat the registration fees, and to find another outlet to continue the quest for a cure.

I cannot imagine trying to fundraise on behalf of Komen from the day forward.

I will continue to do whatever I can to help find a cure for breast cancer.

But Komen, on you, I give up.

Hello, Handsome ...

Angelo must not sleep.

He can't possibly. There aren't enough hours in a day to accomplish all that he accomplishes, so he must tap into the night, too.

This evening, he posted a few links to some new pieces.

And I have fallen in love with this:


Isn't he handsome?

I told Angelo that he needs to ship this stunner with a bottle of Scotch. This is a Scotch-drinkin' perch, that's what this is.

Go buy a bottle. (I'm a Macallan girl, myself.) You'll have money in your pocket because not only is this settee gorgeous, he's impossibly affordable.

Don't you feel more refined already?

For The Love Of Office Supplies ...

I have always loved school supplies.

When I was younger and my mom would haul me with her to the pharmacy where she paid our electric bill – and perhaps picked up prescriptions, too – I was allowed to wander down the school supply aisle because it was in line with the service window, so she was able to keep an eye on me.

I was in my heaven among the Pink Pearl erasers and translucent rulers and spiral-bound notebooks, the bane of teachers everywhere. Pencil boxes and markers – oh, markers – and folders and packs of loose-leaf paper. And the piece de resistance, the box of 64 crayons with the sharpener built in.

Heaven, I tell you. Heaven.

And sometimes, my dad would take me to the stationery store when he had to pick up a new rubber stamp for his business. I remember the day I discovered larger binder rings. He bought a few of them for me. They made excellent bracelets.

To this day, I'm plenty happy to wander around an office-supply store. Sometimes, I even need to buy something. My relationship with binder clips is well known to many. (Doesn't everyone have four sizes on hand?)

The store I frequent most frequently begins with an Office and ends with a Depot. And recently, the location I frequent most frequently moved. From next door to the Bed Bath & Beyond to the space formerly occupied by Barnes & Noble.

The new location is carpeted. It feels wrong.

And now I have to learn the new layout. I used to know right where I was headed when I actually needed something, but now, oh, nothing where it's supposed to be.

But I was there the other day because I needed to buy some shipping boxes. I spied the shipping supply section. Labels. Tape. Bubble mailers. Tubes. Clasp envelopes. But nary a box. Seriously? Could they only be had online? Crap.

But no. I found them. All the way at the back of the store. Which made no sense. But fine. I grabbed four 6x6x6 boxes in their flattened state, $1.49 each. Six bucks for four boxes. That seemed kind of silly.

Then I remembered that I needed jewel cases. (Yes, I still use them sometimes.) I found my way to them and was reaching for a 50-pack for $16 and change when I spied a 30-pack for ... $7.59.

Now, math was not my best subject in school, but I did OK on my 2s when I learned multiplication.

$7.59 x 2 = $15.18

and

30 x 2 = 60

Huh. Ten more cases for less money?

I didn't need 50 anyway. So I grabbed a 30-pack and headed for the checkout, still thinking that $6 seemed like a lot of money to spend for four boxes, but c'est la vie.

At home, though, I looked for them online. Uline sells boxes.

Do you know what Uline charges for a 6x6x6 box? $0.26. Yeah, that's right: 26 cents.

Granted, I have to buy at least 25 of 'em.

But do you know what 25 x $0.26 is?

$6.50.

So, yeah, Office Depot won't be seeing any future box-buying business from me.

I requested a Uline catalog today. It's available online, but I still like printed pieces. I am more than a little giddy at the thought of ordering mailing tubes for shipping sleeves of cookies. And boxes in assorted sizes. And bubble mailers.

No crayons. But lots of other good stuff. Including jewel cases.

Heaven.

On Behalf Of Women, Continued ...

This post is a continuation of a post I wrote last month.

The day after I posted that entry, I wrote much of what follows. And then I didn't post it. It didn't feel done. But reading it again tonight, in combination with a comment I left for a friend on Facebook earlier today, it now feels newly relevant. So I'm posting it with new content at the end.

Yesterday, I was feeling glib. And so I wrote glibly.

But as my friend who first posted the question that inspired my post and I kept trading comments on Facebook, the discussion turned more thoughtful.

I mentioned that women, from an early age, are conditioned to be mindful of their looks. "Toddlers & Tiaras" is a horrifying example, but, I went on to point out, there is no male equivalent of beauty pageants, there are no events at which men are judged solely on their looks.

He replied to say he hadn't considered that before, that the closest male competition would be Mr. Universe.

But that, I pointed out, is a competition based on a pursuit. No man is born looking that way. They have to work hard to get those monstrous bodies.

In pageants, on the other hand, women strut around in their bathing suits and frighteningly white teeth and seek approval of their looks from the likes of – talking about adding insult to injury – Donald Trump.

It was a good discussion, as Facebook discussions go, and some friends chimed in with thoughts and quips. One female friend wondered why women of a certain age are only ever seen on television to discuss their irregularity. (Gales of laughter when I read that.)

But my brain continued to ruminate on the topic, and I realized that I was thinking about a woman I saw at the post office on Saturday. An older woman, in her mid to late 70s, I'd guess. Maybe older. Lovely white hair. She was in front of me in line, a couple of people ahead. She was wearing a long navy coat. She interacted with the clerk kindly.

On my way out the door, I noticed her behind me and held the door for her. She thanked me. "Some doors are so heavy," she said.

"They are," I agreed.

The door wasn't heavy by my standards, but it was by hers.

This, though, was the first time I saw her face, and I was struck by her makeup. It was applied beautifully, but I don't often see women of her age in full makeup.

And I wondered, yesterday, about why she still wears it. Habit? Did she grow up learning that she should never leave the house without putting on her face?

And that phrase struck me in a way that it's never registered with me before: put on your face. As if the face each of us was born with isn't good enough to show the world?

Of course, she may simply like to wear makeup. It may just make her feel pretty. And that's fine.

When I was younger, I couldn't wait to wear makeup. I used to badger my mom. (Hi, mom. Sorry about that.) But I never got into wearing it. Because, I suppose, my mom didn't wear it. Not the way many women do. She'd give her eyebrows a little oomph and swipe on a coat of mascara and maybe a touch of lipstick, but that was it. No foundation, no powder, no eyeshadow, no eyeliner, no lipliner, no blush.

Today, my routine isn't much different: a pat-down of powder, a smudge of eyeliner, a coat of mascara, a swipe of lipstick on my lower lip, rub my lips together and go.

I've had my makeup done a few times, once for my headshot, once because the makeup artist at the salon where J-D as doing my hair noticed that I needed help (I bought products from her that day, since that's what one is supposed to do when one has a makeover; the foundation shade she chose for me makes me look like John Boehner; I've never used it), and once before a birthday lunch. Ronnie, bless his heart, is very good at what he does, but I had to tell him to get rid of the metallic gold eye makeup. I looked like Cleopatra. (In more-than-my-usual makeup, I swing between looking like Cleopatra and John Boehner. No wonder I don't wear it.) Cleopatra notwithstanding, when I've had my makeup done, I've mostly liked the results.

But I wear very little is my point. At the end of the day, I don't wash off a flesh-colored mask.

And today, what made this feel relevant was Melissa McCarthy's Oscar nomination.

A friend on Facebook posted this link from Salon: "Melissa McCarthy’s great big win: The 'Bridesmaids' star and best supporting actress nominee proves success doesn't always come in a size zero."

I clicked.

I read.

I sighed.

I wrote on the friend's page, "It saddens me that a 'Woohoo! A fat person got an Oscar nod!' story is, in fact, a story. Meanwhile, Angelina Jolie looks painfully close to being anorexic. The whole 'beauty' industry is insane."

Insane.

It saddens me. No one feels the need to write a story when a hefty man achieves a well-deserved accolade.

And tonight I saw Marie Osmond in a commercial looking almost nothing like Marie Osmond. What the hell did she allow to be done to her face? In the name of what? Because, Marie, dear, I hate to tell you, but that's not beauty. That's disfigurement.

And even as models die and photographs are Photoshopped to whittle images of women into impossibly inhuman forms, it persists.

Is there truly no end? It seems to be chronic and incurable, this hideous pursuit of beauty, this ceaseless pursuit of superficial worth.

There must be a remedy.

Mustn't there?

A Cookie Story ...

I remember churning out a ridiculous number of cookies from the oven of my apartment-sized stove in my little studio on Waveland. Maybe that was the year all this started.

Or maybe it wasn't. But somewhere along the line, cookies became my thing.

One of my editors dubbed me The Cookie Queen. I liked it. CQ, for short. Which is also shorthand, in the world of newspaper editing, for "I checked this. It's correct." Familiarity breeds contentment.

So, I baked. Each year, the holidays would roll around and I'd plot my list of cookies, which grew to somewhat ridiculous proportions. No one needs a selection of 14 varieties, but, well, I may have a bit of a problem with shelving an idea once it worms its way into my brain. And each year, I would make a list of recipients, and that swelled, too.

And I would bake. And somehow, I would manage to stash them all in my freezer, Tetris style, and then I would package them and dole them out as the calendar wended its way toward Christmas, and people were happy.

Really happy.

Which is why I bake.

Baking means never having to say you're jaded.

There have been days over the years when I have been more than a little loathe to begin and there have been days over the years when I am more than happy to wash the last cookie sheet, tuck the KitchenAid back into the corner where it rests, and bid my equipment goodnight.

But the joy they bring, those humble offerings of butter and sugar and flour and love. Amazing. Every time.

And so, over the years, people have told me I should open a bakery, I should sell cookies online, I should do something more.

And I've thought about it. And that was it.

I am very good at talking myself out of many things.

A bakery wouldn't work, I decided, because:

a) I cannot make every cookie myself. There are only so many hours in a day.

b) What makes my cookies special is that I make them.

c) I do not want to hand over a recipe to a commercial baker and say, "I need 10,000 of these today, please."

d) I do not want to bake every day. Some days, I'm inspired. Other days, I'm not. I told myself I didn't want to lose my love for it.

e) (You get the idea.)

But for all the things I've decided not to do in life – become a doctor, persist with online dating, camp – the notion of baking for more than just family and friends hasn't gone away.

Always, there are little nudges, suggestions, hints.

Some, come to think of it, have not been so little. But they all add up.

The encouragement of family and friends is valuable and yet easy to discount. Of course they say those things, I tell myself. They're my family and friends.

But more and bigger pieces are starting to slot into place.

Last year, I started contributing to Angelo's blog, knowing full well that he wasn't asking me to provide content so much as he was challenging me to think more creatively and pursue this path. His blog provides an outlet beyond my own.

And then a few months ago, a friend asked me to bake for him for his clients for the holidays.

And around that same time, someone who has enjoyed my baked goods in the past asked me if I would consider baking for her for events at her home.

And somewhere along the line, I became a more avid reader of Leite's Culinaria and became cyber pals with its namesake. I do not believe David could be more delightful and charming if he tried.

And for Christmas, my brother's family gave me a gift card to Williams-Sonoma (tucked inside a very awesome oven mitt) and I wandered around the store and while I found many things I would like, I settled on Sarabeth's Bakery: From My Hands to Yours. (Which, oddly, doesn't appear in the cookbook offerings on Williams-Sonoma's site, hence the link to Amazon.) I thought I might not need another baking book, but it was beautiful, and Angelo loves Sarabeth's chocolate shortbread (and other treats), so it came home with me. And I sat and read it. Not every word of every recipe – not yet – but all of the text upfront and at least part of every page.

And then, on Thursday, Leite's Culinaria featured a post by Sarabeth and the recipe for her croissants.

And this is where the story gets interesting. Or maybe more interesting. I hope it's been interesting all along.

I commented on the post: "I bought her book recently. I’m in love with it. Easily one of the best baking books I own. I’ve never attempted croissants, but this recipe (along with the scene playing in my head of Meryl Streep making chocolate croissants for Steve Martin in “It’s Complicated”) make me want to try!"

And the next comment to post was from Sarabeth: "I remember it like it was yesterday when Meryl Streeep learned from me to roll the croissant for the movie. She picked up the technique quickly… a natural at everthing. The scenes inside the bakery were shot at Sarabeth’s Bakery. There is a quick moment when you see someone sheeting the dough through our sheeting machine. It’s in slo-mo….that someone is me!"

I had no idea!

Meanwhile, I discovered (via Renee Schettler, if memory serves) that Sarabeth has an account on Twitter. So I followed her. (She's @goddessobakedom, FYI.) And she, much to my delight, followed me back. I tweeted Angelo into the mix, presuming that he would like to follow her, too. And she followed him back. So now we were all connected in a happy Twitter loop.

And then later that day, I saw this:


Um, wait. What?

Sarabeth just plugged my cookies?

Sarabeth, she of the jam-making, café-opening, pastry-empire-building, Meryl-Streep-croissant-tutoring, gorgeous-baking-book-authoring genius, just plugged my cookies?!

Whoa.

The next day, I relayed the story to some friends.

"You have to get on a plane to New York! You have to meet her!"

Well, yes, I do. Someday. That would be lovely.

In the meantime, I sent a note to her. Told her it would be my pleasure to bake for her. Asked if she had a favorite.

She replied with her favorite.

I asked where I might send them.

And she sent me an address.

So, I shall bake for Sarabeth. And I hope she enjoys what I send.

Food people seem to like when other people do the cooking. Or the baking. I know I do.

I love the path she's taken, from cooking jam – well, marmalade first – in her apartment to the success she enjoys today. I can relate to the early part of her story. Perhaps someday I will be able to relate to more.

Last week, I wrote a post about my concern that too much of my life was frivolous. I've long felt like I should be doing something "important." Whatever that means.

And I included a photo of a rock from my friend Patti's site. "Do what you love."

Recently, I asked Angelo about the best part of his day. "Hmmmmm," he mused. "I had a chocolate shortbread cookie from Sarabeth's at Lord & Taylor." He cited other things, too, but I love that he led with a chocolate shortbread cookie from Sarabeth's.

There is a lot of joy to be found in a chocolate shortbread cookie.

There is lot of love that goes into baking for others.

It is a simple act. But it is profound.

It is, most definitely not, frivolous.

Double Chocolate Espresso Cookies ...

Make these. Just go make these.

'Lost And Found' ...

Somehow, it's been nearly two years since I wrote this post about Geneen Roth's Women Food and God.

I reread it tonight. A lot of thought went into that post, mostly about me, not as much about the book, but it's odd to summarize books of this ilk. What's important to me isn't necessarily important to you. And I surely do not intend for my posts to serve as replacements. If the book appeals to you, it's worth looking into for yourself.

Last night, I finished reading Roth's Lost and Found, which, for me anyway, struck me as even more important than Women Food and God.

Losing all of her life savings to Bernie Madoff's scam forces her to, once and for all, confront her issues about dealing with money, and she draws the parallels between dealing with money and dealing with food. Or, to begin with, not dealing with money and not dealing with food.

I read the entire book aloud, yes, to myself. I do that sometimes, when I really want to focus on the message. Reading actively that way channels it more effectively into my brain. My mind is less likely to wander as I read.

As with her last book, I don't feel like it's my place to talk about what's most relevant. Though, for me, almost all of it was relevant.

Except the part about losing $1 million to Bernie Madoff. That didn't happen to me. And now, it never will.

But I will share this: "The true disaster is living the life in your mind and missing the one in front of you."

I read that and felt it like someone had punched me in the chest.

What I appreciated about this book was its lack of exercises. This isn't a book that requires putting pen to paper. Not overtly, anyway. But she provides plenty of food for thought.

It's a very worthwhile read.

Frivolous ...

I have been having a conversation with three amazing women, only one of whom I know.

The other two are new in my life, since last week. I have yet to meet them, but I suppose it is unfair to say that I do not know them.

I know them. I know a bit about them, as much as one can glean in two conversations that have had to end.

These women are insightful in ways that I am not often insightful for myself.

Today, one of them said something so simple, I was literally struck dumb for a moment.

"I never thought of that," I finally managed to say.

I never thought of that.

In the first conversation, last week, I mentioned that I feel like too much of my life is frivolous. I had never described it that way before, and I was a little surprised when the word came out of my mouth. Frivolous. Frivolous. What a strange word.

Frivolous.

Look at it.

Frivolous.

It almost looks like nonsense.

There is this divide in my brain, this chasm that yawns between thoughts of things that I should do and things that bring me joy.

They are not the same things.

There is my mother's voice in my head (she hates when I use the word "mother," and it's true that she is not a "mother," she is very much a "mom"), telling me from a very young age that God gave me a very good brain.

I'll set the God component aside and own up to the very good brain part.

I'm smart. Really smart.

And I don't say that to boast, but to illustrate my point that being really smart predisposes me to believe that I have to do something with my life that very smart people do.

Many have told me I should go into politics.

No. No. A thousand times, no. The inanity would kill me.

Inanity. Rhymes with "insanity."

Politics, in its mature form, is certainly worthy. Politics, in its existing form, makes my stomach churn. And my head hurt. Who knew grown-ups could act that way? I've seen toddlers with better coping skills.

I am a leader, people tell me.

It has only now – literally, just seconds before I typed this – dawned on me that the only person I need to lead is myself.

I do not need to lead a team. Truly, I suck at delegating anyway. When I see something that I want done, I see the way I want it done, and I do it.

I needn't lead others directly.

Well. Huh. That's a good realization.

Way to go, brain.

I told the women about Patti Digh, my friend and author and all-around extraordinary gal, about her new web site and the daily rock.

"Do what you love," read the rock when I went to visit today.

It was later that I realized that I was looking at her home page and not her blog, which is the default page when anyone visits 37days.com and which features the true daily rock. No, the rock on her home page is static.

But still, today, as a message, it was important.

I've been making my way through Life is a Verb, her first book, which is not her first book, really, but which is the first book that came from her true self. Her earlier books were business books and I'm sure they're fine business books, as I can't imagine Patti turning in any work that is not fine, but when they arrived at her home, she felt nothing. No wonder. Patti is about as far away from traditional business as a woman can get.

Tonight, I flipped through it to read some of my notes in the margins and one of the first ones I wrote to myself was, "Importance is relative."

Why, yes, Beth, it is. And how nice of you to have already had that thought.

Importance is relative. What is important to me is very possibly not important to you.

Also, my brain is telling me that at the moment, I have no real way of knowing the future. Who knows what lies five years down the road? One year, for that matter. One week.

"When you take charge of your life, there is no longer need to ask permission of other people or society at large. When you ask permission, you give someone veto power over your life."
— Albert F. Geoffrey

Patti included that quote in a margin some pages later. Powerful. Veto power. (The politics association is not lost on me.)

What an amazing thing, letting go of expectations. Not expectations that others have of me. I clearly don't care about living up to those. If I did, everyone'd be sorely disappointed by now. But letting go of expectations I have of myself. The shoulds. The soul-crushing shoulds.

Should has gotten me nowhere. The Universe has kicked me out of every "should" situation I've tried.

Should. There's another weird word.

Should.

Who decides my shoulds?

Me.

Not other people or society at large.

"You're supposed to be the leading lady in your own life, for God's sake!"

I love that line, from "The Holiday."

Indeed.

And what could be less frivolous than that?

Good Times, January Edition ...

The January cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Coconut Chocolate Almond Biscotti, a biscotti of my own creation, inspired by an Almond Joy.