what is that cookie?

outer circle, starting at the top: iced lemon shortbread squares, cuccidati (fig-filled pockets, scattered throughout), cranberry walnut tassies, espresso bites, spiced cranberry drops with white chips, banana chocolate chip bars, lemon poppy drops, cinnamon diamonds, gingersnaps, cornmeal-dried cherry hearts

inner circle, starting at the top: peanut butter delights, peppermint candy canes, lemon-fennel pretzels, andes mint chocolate drops

This year's holiday baking is done. Maybe. I keep telling myself that I have enough to do wrapping presents and boxing up packages, but I may just add a little more to the platters. Coconut, for example, is woefully underrepresented, and there aren't any rugelach, despite the fact that I have cream cheese in the fridge for that very purpose.

What I need now is a couple of snow days in the next week or two.

That, and another dozen eggs.

apple of my pie

apple cranberry crumb pie, made with the help of my trusty sous chef

life is short. make dessert first.

Chocolate Pumpkin Tart

The first of the holiday desserts is done. Well, actually, that's not true. The cinnamon ice cream has been in the freezer for a few days now. But the first baked dessert is done. Who wants a slice?

Next up, when Emily gets home: Deep-Dish Apple-Cranberry Crumb Pie.

cheesy, in a good way

As I mentioned previously, I've decided mostly on cheeses for hors d'oevres and football food tomorrow. Of course, in my house, that means "cheeses, some pate, shrimp and cocktail sauce, and a bag or two of chips with appropriate dips," but whatever.

Anyway, I've invited another family to come for the pre-game festivities tomorrow, and I think I need to add one more cheese. I'm going with brie. The question is: does anyone have a not-too-sweet baked brie recipe that they like? I have a goat cheese with dried cranberries on top, so I don't want it to be too sugary.

I was leaning toward this one, with curry rubbed into the rind, a thin coat of mango chutney, and some cashews. Anyone else?

The beauty of this, by the way, is that I realized that, if I get the small wheel, I can bake it in the taster oven, thereby leaving the turkey roasting facility unmolested. Voila!

never one for inconspicuousness

I just want you all to know that, in honor of the impending visit of friends and family, I've developed a, shall we say, spot, right on my forehead, just between my eyes, where Gwen Stefani or a not-Native-American-Indian woman would put a jewel.

I don't look like them, however. I look like this.

google sleuth

Because he loves me, and knows that there is little that I enjoy like my hometown Michael Jackson coverage, Andrew kindly brought me a copy of today's New York Post.

Never a publication to miss an opportunity to rehash what has already been reported in the British tabloids, the Post reports that, among the evidence seized during the raid at the Neverland Ranch were love letters to the boy now accusing Michael Jackson of molesting him. According to the Post, these letters were addressed to "Rubba." Gross, I know.

Well, you know me. Not content to settle for secondhand reportage, I tried to read the original Daily Telegraph article. Only there's some whole byzantine process to get to read their stuff, including a registration page that didn't support Safari. So I went a-googling. And I entered "rubba rubba." And I ended up at an Australian newspaper that had the whole story.

Here's where it gets interesting.

Remember that weird Martin Bashir documentary about Michael Jackson, where Jackson, sitting on the couch holding hands with a kid (who, as an aside, has cancer!), talks about sleeping in bed with children? Well, it turns out that the accuser is the same kid. You gotta love those wacky folks in the U.K. They'll print anything.

So, imagine, if it's true: Jackson befriends the kid, seduces him, and then has the temerity to get up in front of a camera and talk about the beauty of their relationship. Personally, I will go on record as saying that I think he is totally guilty, but that he doesn't think he is, like O.J., only different. I believe that Michael Jackson has in fact been molesting children for years, but he just sees it as part of their "special" relationship...that he's special, the child is special, and their love is special, and the rest of the world just doesn't understand.

And, finally, here's a coda to my tale of internet sleuthery...Andrew gets home, and, so proud of myself, I tell him my story, and he says, "oh, yeah. I read that somewhere." And you didn't think to mention it?!? "What?," he says, "Was I supposed to run home and tell you this?"

Yes, Honey, you were. What did you think I wanted to talk about? Istanbul?

my daughter, the artiste

Emily recently took an extracurricular art class with an "Under the Sea" theme. This was her best picture.

things overheard, but not by me

This whole LP thing reminds of a story Alan once told me...he was in a record store (yes, a record store) and one teenager said to the other "Who are the Beatles? I've never heard of them," and the other replied, "Oh, they were Paul McCartney's first backup band. Before Wings."

Alan overhears the best things. One time, when he was at Yentl, he heard this grizzled old Jewish man turn around to his wife and say "If dat's a boy, den I'm a peeze bekkin!" It doesn't translate into print that well, I fear. If you see Alan walking down the street someday, ask him to tell you the story.

the lp: extinct like a dinosaur

"So," I said to my Sunday school class," I was at a party at my friend Kelly's recently, and the cool thing was that she has a new stereo and it plays records, so people brought their records, and we listened to them, and it was fun. Do you guys know what records are?"

"Yes," said sweet little Adam. "They were what people had instead of cd's in the olden days."

The olden days?!? F for Adam!

I think he thinks I used to get to school on a horse and carve my lessons in stone when I got there.

"i am a blogger"

Last night at our monthly meeting of Girl Scout leaders, we played one of those "getting to know you" games. We tossed a ball of yarn around a circle, each holding a bit and saying something about ourselves...

"I am the mother of two sets of twins!" Toss.

"I am an only child!" Toss.

"I am done with my Cristmas shopping!" Toss, to wild applause.

So it gets to me, and wanting to say something mildly interesting and not overly revealing, I said, "I am a blogger. I have my own website."

They all, to a one, looked at me like I was from Mars. "A what?" "What was that word?" "Blog?" "Oh. Interesting."

No, actually, I'm not from Mars, but I do seem to have moved there.

to brine or not to brine?

Lisa's snide dismissal of my concept of creamed spinach as a green vegetable is hardly worthy of note. i will say only this: last I looked, spinach was green. E.O.C.

On the other hand, Betsy's comment about the brining brings us to my annual week-before-Thanksgiving debate.

The thing is, I've never done it. I buy my Turkey fresh from the farm, free of hormones and injections of saline, chicken fat, and god-knows-what. It makes a nice roaster. But, all the top-notch home cooks I know brine.

So I ask you, my trusted friends and readers: should I bother? Is the improvement going to be bigger than the effort? Should I brine just the roaster, or Peter's fryer as well? And, most important, how the hell do I do it?

In other Thanksgiving Preparation News, here's what I made yesterday:

• crust for the apple pie, rolled, placed in pan, and frozen (I figure if the doughboy can do it, so can I);


• crumb topping for said apple pie (made mostly for my mother-in-law, who only likes the top bites, anyway);


• one loaf of cranberry bread (I know, i keep saying we'll get back to that, and we will!), and a batch of mini muffins from the same batter for Brownie snack today; and


• a batch of Cranberry and Dried Cherry Sauce that won't get hurt by sitting in the fridge for a week or so.

Lisa will, I'm sure, be happy to hear that I've made my very own Woman's Day-style planner, with a task or two for each day between now and Thanksgiving. The good news is that, while I have a lot of baking to do next Wednesday, my Thursday list says, more or less, "Roast the bird, make the salad, mash the potatoes, and heat everything else."

on the menu

This is not my family. My family is more like this, especially on Thanksgiving.

Let's talk Thanksgiving menu. Of course, me being me, I had mine planned a week or two ago. Here's the plan:

Hors d'Oeuvres, to be served during football

Well, for once, I decided not to overdo this. It's going to be pate, cheeses, crudités, cranberry bread (we'll get back to that), and, I suppose, to humor Andrew, a bag of chips and some dip. I want variety, but not too much substance.

The Main Event

I think I'm going with a salad for the first course this year. It's not quite as filing as soup. So, a composed salad of baby romaine, sliced red pear, goat cheese, and candied nuts in a dijon shallot vinaigrette, served with the beloved Onion-Walnut Muffins.

Then on to dinner...

Turkey, of course. I ordered two from the farm today. two, because our friend Peter is determined to deep fry one of them, but I'm not confident enough to do without the roasted bird. Plus, you can't cook the stuffing in a deep-fried bird. Although I am embarassed to admit it, I am a big fan of Martha Stewart's roasting method. It makes the most gorgeous Norman Rockwell bird ever. If you try it, I swear you'll never go back.

I'm going to try to repeat last year's accidental stuffing, a combination of, I think, white bread, cornbread, onions, celery, mushrooms, cranberries, pecans, and some other stuff. Fresh sage, I'm sure.

For the other sides, I'm going with mashed yukon gold potatoes, a butternut squash and leek gratin that was recently in Fine Cooking, and, because we need something green, creamed spinach. Peter is talking about something called Noodles Romanoff, which sounds like a fancy way of saying "goyishe kugel," and I am still thinking about whether or not I want to do without sweet potatoes.

Dessert, back in the family room

Again, I'm keeping it simple-ish. An apple pie with crumb topping, because I know that's the part my mother-in-law likes best, and the chocolate pumpkin tart that was in last month's issue of Martha Stewart Living.

Oh, how I love Thanksgiving.

busy busy weekend

I am whipped. Up before 7 to shower and dress. My Brownies began arriving at 8:30.

Got everyone into cars.

Drove an hour and a half to the Eric Carle Museum of Picturebook Art, listeing to all of the verses of On top of Spaghetti (there are more than you think).

Took the girls into the art studio to decorate teddy bears, the gallery to look at art, the library to hear stories, the auditorium to see some Russian folk dancing, and, god help me, the gift shop, where I learned just how little 6 year olds know about money.

Led the caravan to the restaurant/farm stand where, yesterday, I had confirmed our arrival with the manager, found it closed, went to another place. Helped 12 girls eat lunch, decide between a bakery treat and ice cream cones (11 chose ice cream and there was one scooper), clean up, and pee. Think that sounds like a breeze? Try it sometime.

Drove an hour and a half back home, thankful that On Top of Spaghetti had lost its appeal.

Called the late parents, paid the sitter, and got everyone out of here.

Hung with Jonah and waited for poor Emily, who went from the field trip directly to a birthday party.

Bathed children, put on video.

Put both children to bed, marvelling at the fact that this was the first time in recent history that Emily asked to go to sleep!

Worked compulsively on Brownie video.

Tomorrow? 4 hours of Sunday School teacher training, followed by 4 hours of Brownie Leader training, now that you ask.

community service alert

I got email from Lisa just now, reminding me of something I'd seen at the library this week.

Of course, we all are too smart to fall for this, but there's a big PayPal hoax floating around. If you get email asking you to reply with personal information or your credit card number, as Lisa puts it, run away.

making fudge

Around here, to "make fudge" is a euphemism for a situation in which, when working with children, you really don't know what the hell you're going to do to fill the time, but it's ok, because they are a fairly ignorant and easily pleased audience. Like this: "Ok, so this week in Sunday school, we're going to do this, this, and this, and that will take us until 11:30, and from 11:30 to 12:00, I don't know, we'll make fudge."

But, next month at my library class, we really are going to make fudge! I found this recipe for no-cook fudge on the Good Old Internet:

Looks fairly revolting, no? But I figure that the sugar content alone should be sufficient to please my little darlings.

We're going to read Harold and Chester in Hot Fudge to pass the time while it chills. I figure the whole concept is sufficiently holiday-season without crossing that line into Obviously Christmas to work for everyone, Jewish Teacher and Almost Exclusively Christian Townsfolk alike.

Speaking of my little darlings, I have this terrific little girl in my library audience. L. is very obviously learning impaired and developmentally delayed in some way or another, but she is well-behaved and enthusiastic and sweet as can be. She took my apple class in the Fall, and then she ran into me at temple at the high holidays. I'm sure she doesn't know my name, but she knows she knows me. She saw me yesterday at the library when she was part of the class that Emily took, and she kept waving at me surreptitiously through the classroom window. After class, she gave me a really squeezy hug, and I felt rather good about the whole thing. I hope she comes to the fudge group.

it's what's for lunch

Today seems to be the day to post for other people. In case Julie hasn't seen this, I offer it up for Lunch.

HOW TO GIVE YOUR CAT A PILL

1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.


2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.


3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.


4. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.


5. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.


6. Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.


7. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, force mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.


8. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink 1 beer to take taste away. Apply Band-Aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.


9. Retrieve cat from neighbor's shed. Get another pill. Open another beer. Place cat in cupboard, and close door onto neck, to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges.


10. Drink beer. Fetch bottle of scotch. Pour shot, drink. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Apply whiskey compress to cheek to disinfect. Toss back another shot. Throw Tee shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.


11. Call fire department to retrieve the damn cat from across the road. Apologize to neighbor who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.


12. Tie the little bastard's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table, find heavy duty pruning gloves from shed. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of filet steak. Be rough about it. Hold head vertically and pour 2 pints of water down throat to wash pill down.


13. Consume remainder of scotch. Get spouse to drive you to the emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.


14. Arrange for SPCA to collect mutant cat from hell and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.

HOW TO GIVE YOUR DOG A PILL

1. Wrap it in bacon.


2. Toss it in the air.

advice from the trenches

Big news! Cori is having her baby on Friday. We know this because the little miscreant has decided to firmly lodge him or herself in Cori's pelvis, butt-down and head up, necessating some "minor surgical assistance." (ssh! don't scare her!)

Anyway, incredibly, at this very minute, Cori is at work. She is clearly super-human. And she needs to get out of there.

Because she is my friend, and because, for now, when it comes to life with kids, I know more than she does, I propose the following schedule for her next day and a half instead:

• As soon as you see this -- Leave work. Don't look back for three months.


• 2:30 -- Arrive at the movie theater. Buy a ticket for the next kid-unfriendly movie, whatever it is. Read a magazine while you wait for the movie to start.


• 5:00 -- Get your nails done. I know you never do this, but you might miss it once you know you can't, even if you don't want to.


• 6:00 -- Eat somewhere good and kid-unfriendly, even if you can't afford it. Go to Union Square Café and sit at the bar while you wait for Josh. Charge it if you have to. It's the last meal you'll eat out without feeling like you're wasting tuition dollars.


• 8:00 -- Go to the movies again. It still doesn't matter what's playing.


• 10:30 -- Have sex before you go to sleep. Twice.
• Tomorrow -- I don't care what you do. But you should. Think about what are your favorite things to do and places to go in Manhattan. For me, it's the bra shop, the Temple of Dendur, Warren-Tricomi, Ann Taylor Loft, and Yura. Your list is probably different. Whatever.

  Now imagine what it will be like to share this experience with a stroller, a Baby Bjorn, or a hungry, cranky, and or bored little person. Imagine what it will be like to go to these places knowing that you're paying a sitter $10 an hour to be there. Then revel in the the things that most please you.

However much you think your life is about to change, it's more. A lot. And for the better. But take a day to say goodbye to the freedom that you hardly even know you have now. You deserve it.

I'll be thinking of you on Friday. Say hi to the little critter for me when it gets here.

Love.

best game ever

Where's Jonah?

two much

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Jonah,
Happy birthday to you!

i suck. oh, how i suck.

This might be the funniest thing I have ever seen.

charity begins at the stove

I have a friend who is in Arizona indefinitely, caring for her mother, who may or may not ever get out of the hospital, and another who had a baby about a week and a half ago. Plus, tomorrow is Jonah's birthday and we have company coming. So, here's the plan:

I'm making baked ziti with two pounds of pasta, 3 containers of sauce from the freezer, one package of turkey sausage, one large container of ricotta, two baggs of mozzarella, and some broccoli. One whole pan will stay here, and one half pan will go to the home of each of the friends with a container of salad, a pack of Pillsbury breadsticks (on sale and I had a coupon!), and a dozen chocolate chip cookies from the freezer.

Here, to go with the ziti, we're having garlic bread (Karen's bringing it), salad from a bag, and a chocolate cake (all the better to blog you with, my dear!).

I am so pleased with how much mileage I'm going to get out of a relatively small amount of extra effort.

not a bad day, all in all

Remember how goofy Sarah Ban Breathnach wants us to be grateful for something every day?

Today I am grateful for not one, but two, things: the happy little ploop noise that my bottle of vodka (which is lying on its side) makes when I open the freezer door and tomato paste in a tube.

It's the little things, folks.

contest du jour

Take a look at the title and description of the contents of this book.

Anyone know what's wrong?

halloween report

It was a warm night...so warm that I spent most of the evening sitting on the porch and greeting the trick-or-treaters. There were so many trick or treaters, in fact, that I had to go across the street to my neighbor Karen and get more candy at about 7:15!

Emily went as Ariel and got, by her count, "72 pieces of candy!"

Jonah wore the same dalmatian suit that Emily wore when she was 2. Well, most of it. He didn't like the hat too much.

accept no imitation

Holy cow. I went to the Penzeys web site a minute ago, to replace my trusty 16 ounce bottle of double strength vanilla. Baking as much as I do, I go through one of these every year or so. It's an extravagance, but the final result really makes it worth the $45 or so that I usually pay for it.

Except it wasn't $45. It now costs $66! Apparently, economic changes and a massive cyclone in Madagascar have led to an unprecendented increase in the price of vanilla worldwide.

Obviously, I am not about to start using imitation vanilla. I don't care what the people in the lab at Cook's Illustrated (I would have linked, but they get $3.95 a month to access the database. As if.) have to say about it. And I'm not about to start buying the stuff at the supermarket. So what's a girl to do?

I took the 4-ounce bottle. Hopefully, that will be enough to tide me over until the price drops in the spring. Maybe. And I figure I might actually have to start measuring, if you can imagine.

Horrifying.