Walked

So this is how it ends. After 15 years of service to the company, I was given an hour to pack my desk and leave. No time to say good-bye to all the people I have worked with and my friends. Just a security guard and my former manager watching me pack my boxes. I figured once they found out I was going to work for a competitor that they would escort me from the building. After all, it is just business. I had even prepared mentally for it. But knowing it was probably going to happen and having it happen were two different things. Now that it has, why do I feel so dirty?

MBH says it is a good thing. I now have 2 weeks of unexpected paid vacation with which I can do some of the things I have wanted to do all spring. I can go sit by the Charles River with my sketchbook and pastels and draw. I can read a few books I have been trying to read. But most importantly, I can decompress before I jump in both feet first at my new job. Still, I hate leaving strings untied and more than that; I hate to break promises I made. I made a promise to finish an important project and now it is left unfinished and two close friends and colleagues will suffer because I didn't finish the work. It feels like I have a red mark next to my name, "She doesn't finish her work". Probably just my Catholic school upbringing but I've never just quit and not finished what I started. Serves them right if they lose the client.

Oh well, it all was an excuse to have a glass of wine before 11:30...

The long good-bye

I have been thinking about leave taking and the phrase, "this will be the last time..." quite a lot lately. You see, after almost fifteen years at the same company, in the same division, doing the same thing, I have accepted an offer of employment with a competitor. The decision to do so has not been easy. Nay, it has been rather difficult but the time has come leave Company B. And, I know it. I think my direct boss knows it but, in typical PHB fashion, has his head so deep in the sand or his manager's you-know-what that he doesn't really want to know it. MBH definitely knows it and has known for probably longer than I have. He has been a major cheerleader while I have struggled with this decision and his support has been the rock I've clung to these past two or three weeks. So now that time to go has come, the actual leaving can't come soon enough.

I have been doing a dance with Company E for several years now. They are one of Company B's largest competitors and, to make matters more interesting, they are in Company B's backyard, literally. If we were doing a job or working on a project locally, I could guarantee that I would see someone from the Evil Empire at bid meetings, trying to get into the back door, etc. Like clockwork, they would call every six months or so and say "Hey, BC, we really, really want you to come to work for us. We can offer x,y, and z. You are stagnating over there at Company B. Come work for us please." It was always pretty easy to say, “Gee, thanks for the offer. You know, I think I’ll pass. I’m pretty happy here. yadayadayada.” It was an easy answer and basically true. I was happy. Bored sometimes but I had faith that eventually, things would get more interesting. Until recently that is.

Several weeks ago, I received my bi-annual call from Company E. They had my dream job. They were looking for someone to head up a global group of designers. They were ready to take it to the next level and they wanted me to head up the effort. Basically to create a home-grown group of hired guns and shape the world wide message for this group. Not only was it more money but it was the chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do, be the head guru of a respected group of engineers. “Would you be interested?” the recruiter asked me over the phone. Would I be interested?! Sure, I’ll take a look at it. I was pretty sure before I got the job description that I would have the same answer I had always had in the past, but MBH is always telling me to look at all offers. The job description came. I read it and with each passing second I could feel the excitement building. Hey! Who has been in my brain scanning my dreams and desires? Before I knew it, I was in the throes of the dance. I was pretty sure I wanted this job but my loyalty to Company B was strong. I’ve been there for fifteen years after all. Besides, they had been promising me more control, more projects that showcase my talents and I wanted to see how that would pan out. Then came the meeting I had last Tuesday.

A few weeks ago, my boss, his boss, and the director of our division came to me during our huge love-fest and asked if I would like to take on a role that would include more interaction with our clients, the Top Gun position as it were. I jumped at the opportunity. I actually like working with our clients face to face. I like being in the trenches with our distributors and working the deal. On Tuesday, I was getting ready to leave on a big trip to visit a client who was ready to give us more business than we really could handle. We all sat down for a strategy meeting and after the meeting, discussion drifted to the Top Gun position we had been talking about a few weeks ago. “Well, I’m not sure what we are going to do with that position. And the more we think about it, you are just too valuable in-house to lose”, the Director said. All the sudden it was clear, I was never going to get out of running the in-house group doing the same boring thing, day after day. I was “too valuable”. I had been pigeon holed and there was no way out. The only thing preventing me from immediately accepting Company E’s offer was gone. On Wednesday, at the airport on my way to visit my client, I verbally accepted the offer. Thus began the long good-bye. That process of saying to myself, “This will be the last time I do insert-task/event here for Company B”. My last business trip, my last meeting with this client, my last expense report, my last plunking down of the corporate credit card, my last Company B business card handed out, my last “yes, THAT company” answered to a seat-mate somewhere over Kansas. And soon, before I know it, the last day will be here.

I will be sad. I have developed many close friendships with the people I work with and will miss seeing them every day. I still think Company B is a fine company. But, the time has come to move on. To do new things. To dream new dreams and work with new people. I’m excited and scared all at the same time. But, as a line from one of my favorite movies, “Fried Green Tomatoes”, goes: “A lady always knows when it time to leave”.

Don't mind that alter personality in the pearls

I think it would surprise the folks that know me casually to find out that I channel Donna Reed when I get home. I really and honestly do. I come home from work and the first thing I do is pull something out of the freezer for dinner and sit down with MBH to find out about his day. This normally includes bringing him his adult libation and if he had them, I'd bring him his slippers and pipe too. I would bring him his adult libation and ask about his day in pearls and one of those great 50's crinoline skirts with the cats or geometric shapes if I had one. I find it relaxing and comforting to know that at home there are two creatures who only need me to fix dinner and then be there to listen to them, chat with them about various subjects and generally do the things I like most like reading, baking, etc. At home, I can be the plain simple haus-frau and no one minds. I would fill out housewife as a hobby if they would let me.

Take tonight for example, I left work, went to the gym and then came home to decorate a three layer round cake for a surprise wedding shower that the girls at work and I are throwing for a co-worker. Yesterday I baked the layers (two chocolate and one gold yellow), trimmed the domes off two layers so there is a nice even cake, assembled the layers and put the first layer of white frosting on the entire cake. I always let my cakes sit over night with a thin layer of frosting. This lets the cake completely cool and the thin layer of frosting keeps the cake moist. Today, I mixed another batch of frosting, prepared my decorating bags, frosted the base layer on and then decorated the cake. My cake philosophy is keep it clean. I don't do those swirly, heavy on the roses things. Don't get me wrong. Those cakes are fun to make but most people get frosting overload from them. I like to have some cake with my frosting and most people I know do too. Today, I made my sweetheart cake.

Basically a pink base icing with slightly darker pink hearts and a bottom border. I use three decorator's tips, a #2 pipe to do the outlines of the hearts, a #3 pipe to fill in the top heart, and a #33 shell to do the bottom crinkle edge. Total time to decorate 1 hour but don't tell anyone it is that simple. I want them to think I slaved... Now where did I put my apron.

Basic One-Two-Three-Four Cake

This is the classic recipe for cakes that has been used since cake recipes where written. It is simply 1 cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, 3 cups of sifted cake flour and 4 eggs with some milk (1cup), salt(1/4 teaspoon), baking powder(3 teaspoons) and vanilla (1 teaspoon) thrown in for good measure. I like to use almond extract instead of vanilla for a richer taste. There are two keys to making cake from scratch; measure your ingredients very carefully and make sure you assemble the ingredients the proper way. First, sift the flour, salt and baking powder together and set aside. Cream the butter and sugar until fluffy (almost whipping them). Add the eggs one at a time, beating the mixture thoroughly with each egg. Add the vanilla (or other flavor) to the milk and mix in 1/2 the liquid. Fold in half the flour mixture. Stir in remaining liquid and fold in remaining flour mixture. Mix vigorously until completely combined and there are no little lumps of dry ingredients. Pour into 3 prepared 9" cake pans. (note: I use nonstick pans, sprayed lightly with cooking spray, with the bottom of the pan lined with wax paper and then floured lightly). Bake for approx. 25 - 30 minutes on the center rack of preheated 350 degree oven. Let stand in pan for about 10 minutes and then remove from pan and let cool completely on wire rack before frosting.

Decorator's Frosting: This is my mother's recipe and it tastes better than almost any bakery frosting I've ever had and it holds well in decorator tubes. Not too soft and not to firm.

1 lb Confectioner's Sugar
1 cup Crisco (use only Crisco, the generic brands don't taste right or work well)
1/4 - 1/3 cup milk (depending on humidity)
1 teaspoon almond extract (any flavoring works well but almond is best)
1/8 teaspoon salt

Cream sugar, Crisco, almond extract and salt together (very low speed in stand mixer or better by hand with wooden spoon). Slowly add milk until right consistency. (firm for roses, flowers, etc. Slightly softer for frosting and piping). Let each layer set before adding another to a cake. You can use food coloring to make any color you want.

Catching Up

I've been traveling a lot for work lately. Ok, that is a mild understatement. It seems all I do is get on an airplane, get off an airplane, pick up my rental car, drive to my clients, sit in a meeting or two, drop my rental car off, get on an airplane, get off an airplane and then crash in my hotel room d'jour. I haven't had a chance to read more than business related emails and even worse I haven't been able to read my favourite blogs. So, today has been a day of catching up and it seems that my fellow bloggers have been exceptionally sharp, smarty, witty and wise of late.

Take the recent entry by maikopunk about her secret passion for teenage lit. Her posting about the books we all read (come on, admit it...) was a trip back down memory lane and conjured up images of hiding under the sheets late at night with my flashlight reading when I suppose to be sleeping. I could instantly see my bedroom at my parent's house, the milk crate bookshelves with all my books. I would wait until my parents had gone back downstairs, creep out of bed, select a book to read, grab my flashlight, and crawl back into bed and lose myself for hours in a book. In those books I could be the belle of the ball and not the nerdy ugly duckling that I was.

Then there is the Food Whore. I love her posts. She is the public sarcastic bitch, and I mean that in only the nicest ways, I wish I could be. I have this fantasy of someday chucking my career and opening a nice little bakery somewhere. I read her as my comic relief of the day. Her lastest post about a client returning dirty dishes just proves a suspicion of mine. The more "refined" some people think they are the more like Jed and Grandma Clampet they truly are.

Finally, there is the always thought provoking Imogene over at Cooking with the Mental Office Girl. I stand in awe of her. She somehow finds the most interesting articles to blog about. I'm not talking about surface thinking either. I'm talking about mind boggling, OH! I hadn't thought about this in that way, type of articles. For example her posting on those leeches we all work with. You know the ones I'm talking about. They can't think for themselves and are always coming to one or two people in the office to ask "How to" or "Should I" when what they really are saying is "I don't want to take the effort to learn something new or figure something out on my own. Can you do it for me?".

Good writing one and all!!!

Home is where your pub is

I like to consider myself a renaissance woman. I am well traveled and well read. I love the joy of a good book, a good meal, a good conversation, and especially a really good pint of ale. As such, I have devoted much time to finding a place to sit and enjoy my vices and I have found that there is no place quite like a pub. I find I can easily while away an afternoon or evening in a pub; reflecting on the day's events, perusing a copy of a great newspaper like the New York Times, or chatting local politics with the patrons. No matter where my travels take me, I always find a pub or bar that feels like home. However, that being said, there are four pubs in this world that hold a special place in my heart and I consider them my home pubs or Local as the Brits call them.

I live and work in the greater Boston area. One of the many city's claim to fame is that it is the birthplace of the American Revolution. The birthplace isn't the entire city, it is really a pub located near Haymarket. I know this because the Green Dragon is one of my home pubs and they are quite proud of the fact that Sam Adams, Paul Revere and the rest of the Sons of Liberty planned the Tea Party and other rabble rousin' in their front room. So much so that the story of the Revolution's planning is printed on the bar placemats. The Green Dragon is a warm, friendly place where, when I walk in, I am welcomed by name and can have good conversation, good food, and a pint of my beer of choice, Bass Ale. Like most of the best pubs around the world, the wood is dark, the décor slightly cluttered with local nostalgia, and the bathrooms small. The barstools wobble and my favorite feature of the bar is the hook under the bartop for me to hang-up my purse or backpack. The bar staff is Irish and the food is good basic pub fare. I recommend the Shepherd's Pie and the New England Clam Chowder. One of my favorite things to do at the Green Dragon is to just sit at the bar and reflect on the going ons of our American forefathers. I sit, with a cold pint glass in my hand, and ponder the events of the 1770's and how foreign the idea of Revolution must have seemed to them and the citizens of Boston. I wonder if the people around the world today who are stuggling with the same feelings of oppression from a government who doesn't rule by right/representation feel the same way our founding fathers did when they decided to throw some snowballs at British soldiers on that cold winter day in 1772.

My other home pub in the Boston area is The Old Timer; a little dark "hole in the wall" in a small town outside of Boston, Clinton. The Old Timer is the quintessential small town Irish/American bar. Guinness is the house drink, served complete with a shamrock in the foam. The bar is the front room for the best restaurant in the town, The Old Timer Restaurant. The Old Timer has been a Clinton fixture of over 60 years and you know it the moment you walk into the front door. The McNallys have owned, managed, and worked the bar/restaurant since the day it opened. The walls are decorated with murals of small town life painted by Jim McNally's father in the 1930's; as well as various artifacts of Clinton's sports and civic past. The bar is cluttered with the usual bottles of liquor and glassware, but after you sit down and start sipping your drink or pint of beer you start to notice the faded newsclippings taped to the mirror. Proclamations of past gloried local sports events, political happenings, and the births, deaths, and marriages of the McNallys and long time patrons are all displayed proudly as well as postcards sent by regulars from vacation spots around the world. I sent the McNallys one from my SCUBA vacation in the Isle of Rhodes in Greece and it is sandwiched between a tacky postcard from Atlantic City and another from Beijing, China. It is only after looking at all of these clippings that you start to really understand that the Old Timer is not only the best local watering hole but the heartbeat of Clinton. I love sitting at the bar at the Old Timer where I am known by name and drink. I am not even seated before one of the barkeeps has already started to draw my Bass Ale. I am never offered a menu unless I ask for it because they know I'll order the rueben sandwich with extra fries, and they always remember to bring me a new bottle of ketchup as I use about half a bottle on my fries. On a Saturday night, I can walk in alone and feel surrounded by friends or just sit quietly at the end of the bar and watch a hockey game; while discussing politics and the local gossip with the other regulars.

For awhile, I split my time between Boston and London after my company offered me a joint position in our London offices. As a result, I am now as at home in London as as the Boston and like in Boston, I have two pubs that are my Local when I am in London.

The Albert on Victoria Street in Westminster is where my London friends and I meet for after-work pints or as the starting point for a night of pubs and clubs. It is convenient for us all in regards to the Tube and it is the only pub that regularly serves everyone' s favorite pint or poison. Not to mention, it hasn't gone gastropub on us. The pub is named after Prince Albert, the consort of Queen Victoria and is housed in a magnificent Victorian era building complete with dark wood and etched glass windows. The décor is heavy Victorian, meaning red velvet everywhere. Upstairs, the walls are decorated with pictures of past and present MPs and Prime Ministers. But, the best feature of the Albert isn't an object but a group of men. You see, The Albert is the preferred "hang out" for a group of retired military men known as The Chelsea Pensioners. On any given night, you will find a group of these distinguished gentleman dressed in their red and gold Chelsea Pensioner uniform enjoying a pint or two and regaling anyone who happens to be around with stories of their military service. The stories are best if you stand them a pint or two, but even if you don't, they are a congenial group who enjoy good conversation. If you sit in the Albert long, you had best be able to talk and defend yourself on a variety of subjects, but especially politics. One such visit with MBH found us talking of the "mess in Parliament" with a pair of Londoners who worked for the Minister of Agriculture. The best part of that Parliament discussion was that we had just sat in the Visitors Gallery at the House of Commons that morning and had watched their boss answer questions on everything from farm imports to problems with English honey bees. Our discussion with these blokes digressed into proving exactly how poorly we Americans know our state capitals but a good time and many pints where had by all. We all sat and talked until "Time" was called and afterwards, we weaved our way back to our hotel laughing at the coincidences of the evening.

My other local is the Dog and Duck in Chelsea; conveniently located around the corner from where my flat was or, as my London friends say, "within dragging distance". The Duck, as it is fondly called by the regulars, is just your average London neighborhood pub. It is frequented by businessmen after work and the local folk after 6pm. There is nothing particularly memorable about the surroundings at the Dog and Duck. It is what a typical English local pub should be not what they have become the last year or two with the influx of gastropubs. It has a tin ceiling, wood floor, and tiled walls. They don't serve food; just bags of crisps (potato chips to us in the US). The strangest feature of the interior decoration is a tiled fireplace against one wall that doesn't seem to have been lit in about 50 years but they keep a bucket of coal around, just in case. The tiles have pictures of quaint English village life from the 1700's painted on them. Over the years as tiles have been damaged or gone missing, the broken tiles have been replaced with whatever color, style, etc. of tile that has been available; making the fireplace look like a five year old's pottery project. The bar is the centerpiece of the establishment. One of those really large ornate bars with the veined glass behind the bartop. There are a few beat up tables near the windows and a dartboard on the back wall that you have to pass in front of to get to the loo, especially dangerous around 9pm when the dartgame has been extended by several pints. There is a "telly" above the bar that seems to only get football and cricket games. The BBC4 channel comes in looking like waves. Of course this is the BBC channel that shows "Interview Shows", so on a good afternoon you can watch Parkinson interview Elton John, or hear the tales of some poor chap from Manchester who woke up and found out his wife was also his sister. That goes over really well with the afternoon business crowd. I have spent many an hour at the Dog and Duck, drinking my pint, reading the London Times and two day old New York Times, writing friends back home in the States, and "chatting up" the locals. The barkeep knows I'll have a London Fullers ESB and bag of vinegar crisps. He always asks about my trip "back across the Pond" and then catches me up on the neighborhood gossip and happenings I have missed while away. Proving, home really is where your pub is.

Zonked

Is there anything more exhausting and mind numbing than a week long sales meeting? Ok, maybe climbing a 14,000 ft+ mountain or running the Boston Marathon is more exhausting physically but at least there is that mental exhilaration that goes with those types of feats. After a week of sitting in a semi-comfortable chair in a dim, stuffy conference room watching one PowerPoint presentation after another by our field based sales organization; each one extolling the efforts of the "team", I am completely, totally, unequivocally wasted. Add after-meeting smoozing and boozing, unlimited access to a smorgasbord of unbelievable food/desserts (seriously, the best conference food I have ever had) to the eight hour days of team building love-fest activities and I am one hurting unit. Even spending time with my good friends that I worked with when I was "field based" grew tiring by Thursday. Yesterday, after morning break-out planning sessions for the upcoming fiscal year, everyone departed and I scurried home; happy that I could put the week behind me and even happier that I could take a much needed nap.

Poor MBH, left to his own devices (and cooking) is in serious need of some TLC and frankly, I can barely keep my eyes open this morning at Dammits let alone participate in the pithy conversation he craves. Thank God for the new Mac operating system release, Tiger OS10.4. He was the first kid on the block to get his disks and has been blissfully upgrading his Mac and taking it for a test-drive as only he can; complete with typical MBH upgrade snafus that included discovering the Debian upgrade he performed earlier yesterday repointed all his partitions, including the one on which he had his Mac backup stored. I felt so guilty about the past week, especially Wednesday when I left before he was awake and got home after he had gone to bed, that last night I decided he deserved a very special treat and stopped by the library to procure three classic Sherlock Holmes DVDs starring Jeremy Brett. Then I took him to Staples and treated him to a spindle of DVD+Rs he needed to back up not only his MacG4 but his beloved Debian OS on yet another machine, took him to the local "Packie" (that is a liquor store for you non-Boston natives) to pick up his weekend supply of beer, and then treated him to the delivery of his favourite pizza with which to enjoy with aforementioned libations and entertainment. Once home, we clambered into bed with pizza box and beer, tempted the cat with a piece of pepperoni and settled in to enjoy our evening. Fifteen minutes into the "Hounds of Baskerville", I zoned out which caused MBH to ask me repeatedly if I was paying any attention to the movie. How do I tell him that my brain can't even concentrate on not dropping large amounts of sausage and pepperoni on my nightshirt and the sheets let alone keep pace with Watson as he relays pertinent information to Holmes? I did what any self-respecting significant other would do and lied, "Yes honey. I love this one and am just engrossed". Thankfully I had enough presence of mind to be able to read a bit of Peter Mayle's excellent "A Year in Provence" out loud to him before passing out. Now how do I tell him that I have to leave on Wednesday for a business trip to California? I wonder if lobster will placate him?

Banana's Foster (ala Forefront Conference Center)
Serves 2

2 large ripe but firm bananas, chopped into chunks
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/8 cup Parrot's Bay coconut rum (or dark rum)
1/8 cup banana liqueur
2 scoops vanilla ice cream

Place one scoop of vanilla ice cream in a sorbet glass and put in the freezer until needed. In a flambé pan (you can use a paella pan or really large skillet for this too), place butter, sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg and heat over low heat, stirring until the butter and sugar are melted. Add the banana liqueur and then place the bananas in the pan. When the bananas begin to brown and get slightly soft, add the rum carefully paying attention not to spill on the burner (if you cook with gas). When the rum sauce is hot, turn off the stove and use a long match to ignite (or one of those great camp stove/grill igniters) the rum sauce. When the flame subsides, spoon half the bananas and rum sauce over one scoop of ice cream. Enjoy

Surrounded by Happy Shiny People

I now know where the happiest people in the world are and it isn't Disney. I have just returned from Salt Lake City, having spent the better part of last week there on a business trip, and my face hurts. I have not had to paste a smile on my face for that long since I was meeting a long since dismissed beau's family at his parent's 35th anniversary. Now, maybe it my Northeastern attitudes and agnostic leanings but, there is no way without the benefit of large quantities of alcohol or some other mind altering substance that you can be that happy. And talk about polite! (not that there is anything wrong with that...) I haven't been Ma'med like that since I was last below the Mason Dixon line. By the time I got on my airplane yesterday morning, I was actually looking forward to the surly attitude of the Northworst Airlines flight attendants. But, all sarcasm aside, Salt Lake City is a city of dichotomies. Seriously. For example, did you know that Salt Lake City has the 2nd largest copper mine in the world that has created the 3rd most polluted body of water in the US and a slag heap from its strip mining of the area mountains that is visible from space? I didn't. All I remember from previous trips to Salt Lake City was the green space downtown and the mountains. Salt Lake has a fairly large population of working homeless too. I found this out talking to my maid at the hotel. She was telling me about how she and her sister had spent three months living in the back of a broken down van while they saved enough money to have first/last/security for a one bedroom apartment. I thought to how I have never seen panhandlers in Salt Lake like I see in Boston, New York or other major cities. Later that afternoon, on the way to an appointment, I drove through an area of the city where it was obvious most the people either were living in their cars or one step from living on the street. There are several rusting hulks of steel mills, mining operations, and chemical plants scattered around the valleys. The more time I spent driving around the environs of Salt Lake City, the more it began to look like the Pittsburg or Cleveland of the early 80's. And the sprawl... One last little surprising tidbit, Salt Lake City is where the chain restaurants go to test market new concepts. Apparently, it is the Peoria of American taste-buds. Everywhere you turn there is a Chilis, Applebees, Rumbis, Parrot Pete’s, Eat-at-Joes and hundreds of knock-off whannabees. I asked one of my clients where I could go for a good meal that wasn't a chain. He told me he and his wife really enjoy a place called the Mayan as they served authentic South American/Latin American food. Excited to have Peixe Ensopado (Brazilian Fish Stew) and wash it down with the spicy ginger beer of the region, I drove to the restaurant for an early dinner. What greeted me was a big fake Mayan temple complete with large neon Toucan on the side of the building. As soon as I walked into the door, I knew that any hopes of authentic or even close to authentic South American food were dashed. I was seated and promptly served a platter full of tortilla chips and fried plantains and sauces ala every Tex-Mex joint in this land. Basically I had stumbled into a Rainforest Cafe meets Chi-Chi's and the menu reflected that concept. I left $7.00 on the table for the ginger beer I had ordered as well as the trouble to clear the table and left. On my drive back to my hotel, I spotted a Wild Oats grocery store. I stopped to pick up a meal from their salad bar and went back to my plastic hotel in a plastic suburb in a plastic town with plastic people to numb my mind with the plastic version of Sex in the City showing on TBS and all the while, REM's "Happy Shiny People" played in my head...

Peixe Ensopado: Coconut Fish Stew

This is a recipe that a friend from Brazil gave me. She typically made it with badejo, a fish native to Brazil and like sea bass. I found a good substitute is haddock or a thick cut of hake or cod.

Juice of one lime
1/2 teaspoon salt
Black pepper to taste
4 fish steaks 1/2" thick
1 large onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
8 green olives, sliced
3 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 malagueta pepper, chopped (optional but tasty)
1/2 cup coconut milk (see recipe below. You can substitute canned but it will be much sweeter tasting)

Make a marinade of the lime juice, salt and pepper and marinate the fish for 1 to 3 hours. Sauté the onion, olives and garlic in oil until onion is limp. Mix in cilantro and cook for 1 minute. Add fish and marinade. Simmer 10 to 15 minutes, or until fish is done. Mix in tomato paste, malagueta pepper and coconut milk. Simmer for another 5 minutes. Serve with rice.

Coconut Milk

1 coconut (see below)
1/2 cup warm water (for a thick milk)
2 to 3 cups warm water (for a thin milk)

Heat the coconut in a preheated 350 degree F oven for 10 minutes. This will crack the coconut. Using potholders, remove the coconut from the oven and place it in a large metal bowl on the floor. Cover the bowl with a towel and with a hammer, hit the coconut to break it open (note: good to take frustrations out as it will take several good hits to break it open). Take out large pieces of broken coconut and strain the coconut water through a coffee filter to take out all the little shell fragments and set aside. Separate the coconut meat from the shell. Use a big solid serving fork or dull knife. DO NOT USE A SHARP KNIFE!! (trust me on this...I have the scar to prove this is a bad idea). You can use a vegetable peeler to get the brown skin away from the ends of the meat. Grate the meat in a food processor or through a food mill.

To make the thick milk: Put the gratings into cheesecloth or a clean white dish towel and tie the ends together. Soak the wrapped gratings in 1/2 cup warm water in a small bowl for a few minutes. Firmly squeeze the gratings over the bowl. This should make about 3/4 cup of thick milk. Add to reserved coconut water.

To make the thin milk: Follow the same soaking process above but use 2 to 3 cups of warm water and repeating the squeezing procedure several time. Use the reserved coconut water and bring the volume to 2 to 3 cups with warm water is needed.

Serve with ice cold milk

I don't know what possessed me to to do this. Maybe it was because I was thinking about baking MBH a batch of his favourite cookies (ehrm..biscuits). Maybe it was because I just always wonder about things like this. But more likely it was because I just couldn't bring myself to finish the project I've been working on for what feels like weeks and dreading the paperwork involved with wrapping up a project was procrastinating. I went to Dogpile and googled chocolate chip cookie recipe. About 30 seconds later I had over 100,000 different recipes for the classic cookies. Whoa!! Too many recipes to sort through, especially as I only had about 30 more minutes before I could call it a day and leave the prison yard, oh, I mean work. So I narrowed my search to original Toll House chocolate chip cookie recipe. Ah, much more manageable at 50,500. As I decided to see what made each of these recipes different from the recipe I keep in my head, I was amazed at how many recipes claim to be the recipe Ruth Wakefield invented outside of Boston in the early 1930s. There were some recipes with 2 1/4 cups of flour and 1 3/4 teaspoon of baking soda. There were others with 1 1/2 cups of flour and 2 eggs. Some called for walnuts while some called for pecans. As I clicked the next link in my search, I got to thinking about how each of these recipes somehow ended up on the internet and how neat it was that all I or anyone else looking for a recipe for the most famous cookie in the world had to do was type "Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookie" into a search engine, hit print, and in 30 minutes or so could be sitting down to a batch of warm, gooey, chocolate love. I kept plowing through the recipes and each variation of the recipe with it's 1 stick of butter here and 6 oz of vegatable oil there began to remind me of people. Some had just the right mix of ingredients to make them bake up sweet and chewy. Some had too much liquid and would bake up flat and crispy. Some had too much sugar and would cook too fast, leaving a burnt outside and raw inside and some had too much baking soda and would taste funny. But, somewhere in this electronic medium we have begun to rely so much on, someone thought the recipe was just right and decided to share it with the world.

I've been reflecting a lot lately on people/relationships. How like a really good recipe they work together and how sometimes, even if you have all the right ingredients, if you don't have the right amounts then they just won't work. Kind of like the recipe I looked at right before I turned my computer off to go home. It called for 1 1/2 teaspoons of salt. It had all the right ingredients: butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, 2 eggs, vanilla, baking soda, semi-sweet chocolate chips, flour and salt but it called for 1 1/2 teaspoons of salt. The cookie would look right and even bake right. From the outside the cookie would be perfect but one bite would tell you it was too salty. I'm not sure what all this deep introspection into recipes means. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Or maybe it was just an excuse to go home, kick my shoes off, open the window in the kitchen to let the late afternoon spring breeze into the house and bake a batch of cookies for MBH.

MBH's Favourite Chocolate Chunk Cookies:

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees

Ingredients:

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large eggs
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chunks

Cream butter and both sugars together in bowl until smooth and fluffy. Add eggs and vanilla and combine until smooth. Add flour, salt, and baking soda. Mix until creamy. Add chocolate chips and chunks. Stir until all the chips and chunks are incorporated. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and place in fridge for 20 minutes. Using a really big spoon, take a large portion (4 Tablespoons or so) of the dough and roll into a ball. Break the ball in half, leaving a hinge and place on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 12 - 15 minutes or until golden brown on outside and pale in the middle. Let cool on cookie sheet for minute or so and place on cooling rack.

This recipe will result in 16 really big chewy cookies.

"He's the One"

"He's the one! I know it this time! I'm letting someone into my life for the first time ever!" I'd been trying to ignore the two perky and loud Harvard co-eds sitting at the table next to me at Dammits for as long as I could. I had promised myself that this morning I would not only finish this week's Sunday NY Times but the last three weeks of Friday and Sunday NY Times as well. Then, one of the girls announced this little gem with enough gusto that everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. I just couldn't concentrate on the NY Times Magazine any longer. Feigning to be reading, I listened as she gushed as only a young twenty-something who has fallen in love for the first time this week can gush. She went on to tell her companion how he had nickname for her already. How he actually told her about his oldest high school friends and she was even invited to meet them. How she actually felt finally here was someone she could let into her life because, as she told her friend, "You know how I am. I just can't, like, jump into a relationship like E. I have to get to like really, really get to know someone first and I think I really know him. I mean, like, when he first, like, saw me at the boathouse two weeks ago, I just KNEW". I wasn't sure whether to politely correct her "like" use of the word "like" or to stand up and declare as adamantly as she, " You don't know! You can't know!! You WON'T know!!! Not for many more years. Not until you have lived a bit more, loved a bit more, and most importantly, lost a bit more. Then you will know." But I didn't. I couldn't. There was something in the urgency of her voice, the way her eyes lit up as she declared to the entire coffee shop as well as her friend that she had found the elusive One. It all reminded me that part of being a young twenty-something is the surety of finding the One. The giddiness to the point of not being able to breathe when you meet someone new and the assuredness that he/she is the One.

I thought back to all my "Ones" and how I couldn't wait to share my happiness with my best friend, K. How I would call her up at work or home as soon as I was sure and declare that I had something very important to tell her. She knew me well enough to know exactly what that statement meant; I had found "him" again. She would agree to meet me at one of our haunts where she would endure my every dissection of how I just KNEW this was the One. She would ask all the right questions. Questions like "Does he call you a lot?" and "When are you going to see him again?" She would let me ramble ad nauseum about the smallest little features about the One. Then K would do exactly what I needed her to do. She would make me temper my excitement by pointing out that even though all signs looked good, perhaps in a few weeks or days or even hours, I would find he was not the One but just another almost.

As I listened to the girl's friend ask the same questions and offer the same advice/encouragement K had offered me so long ago, I thought about my One and looked over to the chair next to me where MBH was staring intently at the screen of his Mac. We have become that old staid pair the past year or two. Complete with the idiosyncrasies possessed by two people who are past the bloom of early infatuation. We pick at each other over things only people who have lived together for a long time pick at each other over. We grumble under our breath when the we think the other isn't listening or when we hope the other is listening but don't have the courage to say what is on our mind too loud. He berates me for being just like his father and walking out of rooms while still trying to have a conversation. I secretly seethe that despite having seen every episode of Seinfeld at least seven times, when it is on TV that is the only thing on his mind. He still uses his pet names for me and I still get a thrill to hear them. I still look at him in the morning when he is half asleep/half awake cuddled up against me and know there is no place in the world I would rather be. When I am having the worst week of my life at work, I know he will surprise me with a packet of my favourite tea biscuits from Cardullos or find an e-card with a drawing of a frazzled woman who somehow looks just like me to send and brighten my day. He knows that when his world is about to come apart, he can always turn to me to be there to encourage him, to stroke his ego, to support him, to unconditionally love him. Because, as I wanted to tell the two girls as they picked up their stuff to leave, it isn't the giddiness that tells you that you have found the One. Rather it is finding the grittiness and knowing you want to stay. Then, and only then, will you really know he's the One.

Contributing to the delinquency of an elder

When did we as a nation abandon common sense? When did we forfeit the ability to act on our own without the aid of signs and reality TV hosts telling us what we should do? Could someone please explain to me when this happened?! Or am I just getting crotchety in my "old age"?

Tonight, after a stop by the Cambridge Public Library to discuss the upcoming book group I am leading with the librarian and order some background material for the next meeting, I stopped by what MBH calls the World's Worst Grocery Store; World's Worst for short. I needed to pick up a few items that somehow had been missed on my weekly list and well, frankly really REALLY needed a bottle of wine. As it was almost 5pm, the lines were rather long and since I had alcohol I decided to forgo my usual trip through the self check-out.

So there I was, standing in line staring at the mindless tabloids with headlines screaming about Charlie Sheen cheating on his pregnant wife, Britney Spears and Demi Moore's unplanned pregnancies (hmmm..a theme here) and the four headed aliens from Mars who really are in charge of the Vatican, when the most ludicrous and asinine display of what this country has come to played out right in front of my eyes. The elderly lady in front of me was carded for the wine she was buying. Yes, you read that. The 81 year old lady in front me with walker and all was carded by some ninny at the check-out. The lady looked puzzled and asked the check-out girl to repeat herself. "I need to see your id". "Oh, Dear, I haven't carried a drivers license in years. I'm 81 years old you know and have bought a bottle of wine here every Thursday for 21 years and they never ask for my ID". Idiot Check-out Girl from Hell points at a sign attached to her register that says "If you look younger than 50 we will ask for ID to purchase alcohol". I looked at the woman behind me to see if she was as incredulous about what was happening in front of us as I was. She looked at me with that "I can't BELIEVE I'm seeing this" look only intelligent people today seem to be able to produce. The obviously "under age" elderly lady looked at the check-out girl and said again, "Dear, I don't have an id. I was born in 1924. I think I'm just a bit over 50 and if you go ask the manager, he will tell you to just ring up my wine". The check-out girl just pointed at the placard on her checkout and put a look on her face that would have made the mule that lived behind my folks house in Michigan proud. By now, the elderly lady started to get frazzled and the people behind me started to grumble and rightfully complain about how stupid this all was and how they were running late. There was no manager around to walk over and punch into the cash register some magic code or better yet thwack the nincompoop behind the cash register for not being able to use any portion of her brain.

So, I did what any good girl raised to respect my elders would do. I took the old lady's wine, handed the mindless twit behind the register my ID, took the nice elderly lady's $10.00 from her and handed it to the check-out girl, gave the lady her change back and wished her a nice rest of the evening. My grandmother would have been proud.

Quick! Get a magnifying glass

I'm not one for superstitions or for that matter one who necessarily believes in old wives tales but I always believe the Groundhog. That little furry bucktoothed squirrel is never wrong when it comes to winter and when it is going to end. However, I do believe the end is near. It was so nice in Boston today, I didn't even need to wear a coat when I hauled the garbage to the curb. I saw my first robin this morning and the geese were honking on their way to Fresh Pond this afternoon and since I was out in the front yard, I decided to go in search of my elusive spring bulbs still somewhat buried under a snowbank.

You see, I have flower envy. For the past three weeks I've been listening to MBH's mother tell me how gorgeous her early crocus are and how the early tulips are starting to poke their tips through her front yard and how the neighbor's tree is budding . MBH's folks live in Youcan'tgettherefromhere, TN and if you stand on their back patio you can throw a rock into the Appilachian Mountains so their growing season comes much earlier than ours. I keep wanting to tell her, "Of course your bulbs are popping. You live in the South!" but I don't because I adore MBH's parents and I accept that even though the package for the crocus I planted last fall said "late Feb/early March" for my region that really means "late March/early April". But yesterday while we walking to Harvard Square, I noticed my neighbor's bulbs were poking their way through the dirt. So tonight, I got on my knees and gently brushed the snow from where I planted my crocus, daffodils, and tulips to see if maybe, just maybe, spring was really and truly on it's way.

And you know what? Right there, under the last crusty bit of snow were little shoots of green where my purple and blue crocus will be. I could see where the dirt was starting break on top my yellow and orange tulips. I even think I saw the tip of an early daffodil. I sat back, looked down the street, watched the kids get off the bus without their coats on, listened to the birds in the tree across the street and breathed in the smell of spring. Yup, spring has sprung and it is about time...

Another wild and crazy Friday night

"Boy, you really are a nerd aren't you?" - business colleague to me after I explained 2nd order sound reflections and how they affect speech intelligibility at lunch this week

Um...er...well...





Thanks to Lady Crumpet for the Nerd Quiz

Lazy Day at the Ranch

It finally quit snowing and thankfully the Boston weathermen kept their perfect record of completely mispredicting the severity of the storm intact. What was to be 6 - 10 inches of heavy wet snow actually was 1-3 inches of wet snow. Not even worth shoveling. Now it is just gray, gloomy with a spit of drizzle and the occasional snow flurry. Cars going down the street are making that splashy, slushy sound of almost spring.

It is one of those perfect, stay in bed and read/sleep days. And since MBH has decided we will forgo our normal Saturday routine of Dammits, bookstore, and lunch, I have declared that today will be an official "Lazy Day at the Ranch". YIPPEE!! A whole day to catch up on a week worth of NYT crossword puzzles, make sourdough bread with my neglected mother starter, read a few cookbooks, finish one of the seven library books I am currently reading, take a nap or two, and if I really feel energetic, I may even make homemade mac and cheese for dinner.

MBH swears I have "ADD" during the weekend but what he doesn't understand is there is so much I want to do and so little time on the weekend to do it all. Normally by Thursday I have a mental list three pages long of all the things I want to get done on my two days of freedom. Some of them include those awful domestic chores like laundry and ironing, cleaning the bathroom, and during the winter the near constant mopping of the hardwood floors. But mostly the list includes things like: make the Cherry/Pecan Scone recipe in the "BBC Good Food" magazine from April, work on one of the three cross-stitch projects I have been working on for two years, try and finally finish Bill Bryson's 'Notes from a Small Island", and make Congressional Bean Soup with the hambone that is in the freezer from Christmas. All the while, I also want to drive up to Portsmouth, NH to window shop and have Bangers and Mash at Molly Malone's, or go to Kittery Point, ME and have winter lobster at my secret lobster shack or head further up the Maine coast to Freeport and LL Bean with a stop at the Cook's British Imports for four packages of Fox's Ginger Crunch biscuits, Heinz Baked Beans for my toast, and a Yorkie bar for MBH.

The nice thing about a day like today is the weather is too nasty to do the "go out and about" things on my mental list. I don't have all the ingredients to make the scones and while I could go to the store and pick them up, I don't feel like fighting the panicking "OH-NO-the-end-of-the-world-worst-snow-since-the-Blizzard of '78-better- pick up-that-last-loaf-of-bread-and-4 gallons-of-milk" crowd. Oh darn!! Forced to read, bake sourdough, watch really bad 80's movies on TV and nap. Now where are my bunny slippers...

Ok...Enough already

The National Weather Service in Taunton MA continues the Winter Weather Advisory and Wind Chill Advisory for the Boston Metro area:

Winter Weather Advisory continues in effect until 4 am EST Wednesday. Wind Chill Advisory continues in effect from 1 am Wednesday to 9 am EST Wednesday.

Snow accumulations of 3 to 6 inches are expected in the advisory
area through midnight.

Snow is expected to taper off from southwest to northeast
tonight then taper to flurries after midnight. Blustery northwest
winds will cause blowing and drifting snow which will reduce
visibilities to near one half mile or less at times.

Bitterly cold air will enter the region tonight. Overnight low temperatures will fall into the single digits and lower teens. Strong northwest winds will combine with these frigid temperatures to cause the wind chill index to drop to between 15 and 22 degrees below zero. At these wind chill readings exposed flesh will freeze in as little as 30 minutes.

The roads will become very slick so motorists are urged to drive with caution. If you must be outdoors wear many layers of clothing: a hat, gloves and cover any other exposed skin.

If anyone wants me, I'm in St. Barts.

Sometimes you just have to jump

I hate the month of February. I find myself not only getting the seasonal "blucks" in February but I find that I get more introspective and not necessarily in a good way. I start thinking about squandered this and wasted thats. I say to myself, "Did I make the right choice about Opportunity A and what about Chance B?" I relive some of my more boneheaded moments and wish that I could climb into Peabody's Wayback Machine and fix what I did wrong. This year I seemed to think a bit more about the past than usual and now that it is March, the question, "What have I done with my life" is being asked by my inner-wench quite frequently. I'm afraid I don't think I have good answer for her.

I was thinking about my grandfather and my father today. I was thinking about all the things over the years they have taught me. My family is pretty sure I get my love of engineering and figuring out how things do what they do from my grandfather. He was a self taught tool and die maker who ended up figuring out how a lot of things on the dashboards of the cars we drive have to fit together. He was the guy who figured out how the push-button channel choice switches for the car radios of the 60's and 70's had to be made to actually work. And remember the AMC Pacer? Yup, that was his dashboard. He taught me how to fish, how to use a slide rule, but more importantly he never told me I couldn't do something because I was girl. He told me all I had to do was have a plan and once you have a plan it is just a matter of following that plan. He also emphasized that your plan had to be well thought out but also flexible because there were just some things you couldn't plan.

I get my sense of food, cooking and how recipes should go together from my dad. My dad has been baking since he was in high school. He ended up working as a cook in the Navy and eventually working as a chef and then food service manager. Somewhere there is a picture of me at about age 4, standing in the bowl of one his huge Hobart mixers in one of his kitchens. I don't think a weekend went by that my dad didn't make big pot of soup or stew. I remember getting up really early on Saturday mornings during the winter when the house was all dark and still and sitting at our kitchen table with my dad while he did his food orders for the week and worked out costs. He would pour some of his coffee, heavy on the sugar and cream, into a small little mug for me and then he would show me his recipes. He would explain how to figure out how many pounds of potatoes and onions you needed to make 150 servings of potato soup with ham from a recipe for eight or if you only needed 25 servings of Chicken Cordon Bleu, how you would break down a recipe that made 100 so that it still tasted the same. My dad taught me how to chop vegetables, make roux, and make chicken stock to die for. Everytime I make chicken and noodle soup for MBH I use his recipe; albeit broken down so I only make 4 quarts vs. 40 gallons. My dad taught me to take chances in the kitchen because sometimes your best dish was born from a mistake. That you needed a little pepper to make things zing. That if you put your metal/glass bowls put in the freezer first when making pie dough, the crust would always be flaky. Most importantly my dad has always been there when I needed his encouragement and even though he doesn't always say it, I know he is very proud of me.

A few weeks ago, I finally did something MBH has been pushing me to do for almost a year. I registered a domain name to start an online bakery; a place to sell small batches of my breads, muffins, scones and cookies locally. I've been wanting to do this for a very long time and I've been thinking about it and planning it for what seems like years now. Now, the time seems to be right to take the chance and see if maybe, just maybe, I can turn my love of baking for others into a career. I know I will need to keep my "day job" for a while but I know deep down inside I have to give this a go. So today, I finished the place-holder webpage, put the finishing touches on my business plan, ordered my business cards and I even have the promise of a first order from a colleague at work for muffins for a brunch she is having. And all day in the back of mind I could hear a voice chanting the advice my dad gave me when he was helping get over my fear of the high dive: "Sometimes, you just have to jump."


My Dad's Chicken Noodle Soup:
One 7 - 9lbs roasting chicken
1lb Celery
1lb Carrots
1lb Onions
2 Bay Leaves
Salt/Pepper
1 large bag of wide egg noodles (or about 1lb homemade egg noodles)

Remove the giblets and neck from the roasting chicken. Place the neck and the entire whole chicken in a very large, heavy 5 quart stock pot/stew pot. Just cover with water (about 8 - 12 cups of water). Add bay leaves, 1 tablespoon salt, 2 teaspoons pepper, one onion chopped into quarters, and 3 inner stalks of celery cleaned of any dirt/debris with their leaves still on to the pot. Bring water to boil and let boil for 20 minutes. Lower heat to simmer and let simmer for 3 or 4 hours until chicken is falling off bones. Let cool and remove chicken, chicken bones, skin, celery, bay leaves, and onion from stock. Put chicken in sealed container and store in refridge. Place cover on stock pot and place stock pot in refridge overnight to allow fat to float to top and harden. Next day, skim fat from top of stock. Stock should be clear with slight yellow tint. Cut carrots, celery and onions into bite sized chunks and add to cold stock along with 2 - 4 more cups of water (depending how long you boiled down stock) . Taste and add salt as needed. Bring to boil, turn down and simmer until carrots are almost soft. Add chicken, more salt/pepper if needed and egg noodles. Cook until noodles almost al dente. Turn off and let soup cool until serving temperature; the noodles will finish cooking. Serve with home made biscuits and honey.

Simple pleasures

I ask you, is there anything more wonderful than the smell of bread baking? Not just any bread mind you but the quintessential American white sandwich bread. There is something so comforting about the sweet yeasty smell that fills the house right before you take a high crowned loaf with a golden brown crust out of the oven. It is all we can do not to rip the bread apart before it even gets out of the pan.

MBH says that just like the 2nd law of Physics, the one that says for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, you can tell my stress level by the number of things coming out of the oven/off the stove. Weekend count: 1 loaf of Farmer's White, 1 loaf of honey whole wheat, 1 large baguette of sourdough, 1 large almond cherry cheese tea ring from the sourdough toss-off starter, 1 batch brownies and one large batch of beef stew. I don't feel stressed anymore.

Farmer's White Bread:
This is the best no-fail bread recipe I have ever used. The loaf is high, the crumb fine and the smell as it bakes...oh heavenly! (SHHH, the secret is in the sponge)

9 oz water
2 tsp yeast
3 1/2 cups of all purpose flour (11 - 13% gluten)
1/4 cup bread flour (13% or higher gluten)
1/4 cup dry milk
1/4 cup butter (melted)
1 1/2 teaspoons of salt
3 tablespoons of sugar

Step 1: Sponge
Mix 1 tsp yeast, 1 1/2 cup of the all purpose flour and the 9 oz of water in a 2 quart glass bowl or Tupperware container. Cover with plastic wrap or lid and let it sit for 3 hours in 70 degree room. (This time will be longer in cool room or shorter in warmer room). Tip: If your oven has a light, turn the light on and put the sponge in the oven to rise.

Step2: Make the dough
Combine the rest of the ingredients except for the remaining all purpose flour. Add the remaining flour 1/2 a cup at a time until the dough is firm but still a little shaggy. Sprinkle a little flour on a good clean surface and flour your hands to finish kneading the dough; only about 5 minutes or so or until you see the development of gluten. Dough will be smooth and elastic feeling when it is ready. Put in oiled bowl or proofing container and let rise until double, about 2 hours.

Step 3: Form loaf
Punch dough down and press into rectangle about 12" x 5" Fold rectangle into 3rds and place seam side down in large greased glass loaf pan. brush a little melted butter on top of loaf, cover with plastic wrap and let rise until top of loaf touches plastic wrap. Remove plastic wrap and let loaf rise until about 2 inches above rim of loaf pan.

Step 4: Bake
In 350 degree preheated oven, bake bread for 30 - 35 minute or until internal temperature is 190 degrees. If crust begins to get too brown, cover with foil until last 5 minutes of baking. Remove from oven and pan when done and let cool about 2 hours before slicing...if you can ;-)

Exit Plan C

I love holidays that don't require my presence in the corporate rat trap; especially when it snows or rains on those days, forcing me to lay in bed read, write, and bake copious amounts of breads, scones, cookies and the such. This President's Day is such a day. MBH and I were up at the crack of dawn to find that it had snowed 4" of big fluffy flakes during the night. While MBH showered, I prepared a beef stew for the slow cooker and fed the sourdough starter in preparation of making baguettes and sourdough blueberry muffins later this afternoon, the BBC World as my soundtrack. Katley sat on his "box" in the kitchen eyeing the chopping of rump steak with interest and hopes that a small bit might fall on the floor. Then, in the still quiet of the slightly growing morning light, we walked to the bus stop, kicking up clouds of fresh powder in our wake. Now, safely two cups of luscious creamy mocha into my day, NYT arts section read and Anthony Bourdain's excellent autobiographical "Kitchen Confidential" finished, I am ready to watch it snow through the windows of Dammits, watch people trudge in and shake snow from their coats, backpacks, and fleece hats and contemplate my actions of the weekend.

I have been feeling like I've been trapped on the inside lane of a roundabout and couldn't decide which road to get off onto. But today I turned the indicator on to merge off of this roundabout. It is both exciting and scary at the same time. I'm sure in the morning I'll smack my hand to my forehead and wonder what in heaven's name have I done. But right now, the pleasure and excitement of having finally made a decision about what to do next is very satisfying. So much so, I think I need another mocha to celebrate and spend the rest of the afternoon sketching out on my yellow pad of paper an outline to Plan D.

Playing in puddles

Shhh...don't tell the groundhog but I think it may be spring! It sure looked like spring out there today, bright blue sunny sky with wispy clouds. It sure smelled like spring, that earthy smell with a hint of melting snow. It sure felt like spring, cold when we left the house this morning but by 10am almost too warm for a jacket. Today was a personal BDF (Big Day of Funness). I had scheduled to have the day off a few weeks ago and then MBH found out he had to go to a computer expo that was in town. So, that left me with a whole day to myself. What is a girl to do but to make the most of it?

The day started out with MBH and I having an early morning breakfast at this hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon in Harvard Sq. After that, we headed downtown to our separate destinations; him to the Hynes Convention Center and me to my secret cafe, Pancifico on Charles Street in Beacon Hill, to enjoy a second cup of coffee, the NYT crossword puzzle, and a particularly naughty indulgence; a lemon poppy seed muffin. I just love sitting in Pancifico's windows facing Charles Street watching the people get off the "T" (subway in Boston), head to work or leave their houses on Beacon Hill. Today was a particular good people watching day. The people in the house directly opposite the cafe were moving. Exciting huh? But in Beacon Hill, where streets are so narrow you can barely park cars on one side of the street, getting two moving vans down the street let alone making room for them to park is quite tricky. See what I mean? There is always some joker who thinks the Boston City "Do Not Park Here, Moving Van Permit" does not apply to him. Of course today, that joker not only didn't think it applied to him but I'm quite sure he thought that even if it DID apply to him, that he wouldn't really get towed because he was driving a 2005 Cadillac. He was wrong. After blocking traffic for 20 minutes, a tow truck came and took the Caddy away...bumper dragging on the street. Don't mess with moving vans in Boston. Somewhere between all this I managed to finish the Tuesday NYT crossword puzzle, drink 2 cups of really good coffee (sorry Dammits, Pancifico's coffee is better), AND talk about the places I love to visit when I'm showing friends around Boston to two nice ladies from Wales. My next destination on my BDF? Kitchen Arts, a home chef's toy store, on Newbury Street. But first a walk down Charles Street window shopping in the antique stores. After browsing through all the cooking gadgets and goodies but not buying, a first for me in that store, I decided to go have a nice late morning cup of tea at the Boston Public Library's cafe, the Map Room (really called Sebastian’s but we call it the "Map Room" because it has old maps of Boston on the walls). I sat and enjoyed the quiet of the room, the nice warm tea, and let my mind wander on this and that with no intent to think too hard on any one subject. As I sat there thinking about nothing in particular I realised that the best part of my BDF had already happened.

To get to Newbury Street from Charles Street you have to walk through the Public Garden. The Public Garden has a very different feel during the winter. There are no flowers but the trees are all showing signs of getting their spring buds. And since the weather was so nice, there lots of small kids out and about with their mothers, au pairs, nannies, etc. One little girl had the best idea of all. She was dressed in brown pants her mom had rolled up over these great yellow boots with pink polka dots and she was jumping and running through all the puddles left by the melting snow. She inspired me. I had been trying to avoid the puddles because I didn't want to get my shoes wet and the cuffs of my pants muddy. But she was having so much fun splashing through the puddles and looking over at her reflection in the ripples that I just had to jump in a puddle or two or..ok, three. There, I jumped in three puddles. I forgot how much fun playing in puddles can be. Of course, I'm sure that at least one mother chided her charge, "now, don't jump in puddles like that crazy lady over there" but it sure was fun. Thank you little girl in the cool yellow boots for reminding that sometimes you just need to splash in puddles.

We all need a team Captain

I'm a Post-It junkie. My monitor at work is ringed with staid yellow, neon green, vibrant pink, and powder blue Post-Its. Some lined, some unlined, some have been up so long they are attached with my other office supply habit, Scotch Tape. My leather engineering notebook even has Post-Its with scribbled formulas attached with Scotch Tape to pages. Last week I was trying to find an AutoCAD cheat command and came across the "new" work number of a former business colleague/friend and decided to call him to see how life was over at the 'evil empire', as I call the company he went to work for, and check out how his plan to blow up the rebel base was going. When I called the number some woman answered the phone. I made an inquiry about my friend and found out that he had left the company several months ago due to health reasons. It seems the cancer he fought so hard and defeated on three separate occasions had returned and he was home fighting it again. Problem was, it wasn't going so well. I thanked the woman who now had his job for the information and immediately began pawing through all the other Post-Its to find email addresses of other mutual friends and colleagues. I sent an email out to the folks I knew probably didn't know about Darth Vader's relapse because Darth is one of those types of people who never burns bridges and keeps his former colleagues as friends, even when he may be staring at you across the table in a business dog-fight. When I came into work this morning, my mailbox was full of emails from friends and former colleagues; some I hadn't heard from in years who had my email forwarded to them from a friend of a friend. Seems that each and every one of us had a funny story to tell about Darth or wanted to pass on further news; a bone marrow donor match was found and Darth was in the middle of his third round of chemo, his wife had to find a second job, his mother had moved in to help, etc. One email though really caught my eye. It was from the person who 8 years ago put Darth, myself, and several others together to form a most formidable sales/technical/marketing team; a group that in one 16 month stretch designed, sold, and installed some of the most impressive sound systems in the world. It was the hardest work and the most fun I have ever had in my 12 years in this job. He had decided that at this year's major industry trade show there was going to be "Wrecking Crew" reunion and he had set up a fund for Darth's medical expenses, etc. We are going to meet in Sin City, play a few rounds of golf (I'm writing 180 on my score card and driving the cart), drink a few drinks, tell a few stories and lies, and then make the drive up to Lake Tahoe to visit Darth. Funny how even after all these years since each of us was traded to another team, this guy is still the Captain and how he always just knew what needed to get done and then kicked each of us in the toosh to get it done.

I coulda been a contender?

Seems there has never been a better time to be a principal oboist wannabe....

Oboist Wanted Signs - NYT 2/12/05