Oh, Sugar, Sugar!

Would someone please tell me why a two-layer yellow cake with chocolate frosting is so tempting to the palate?  Why even though one of those delectable slices did not find its way onto a dessert plate for me, the crumbs and frosting clinging to the knife and server were licked clean away?  Try figuring out the calorie count for that!  The sweet represents my son's fifteenth birthday; that is on top of the donuts and Toaster Strudels he requested as his birthday breakfast; and after the homemade fresh peach cobbler we downed during yesterday's family BBQ to commemorate his ageing.  And the horizon of months ahead is awash with holidays and more birthdays -- a big 18 AND 21st -- not to mention the fall revival of baking for college groups which meet at our church.  Why, everywhere I turn, it seems that I'm replete with sugar-osity.  Can I click my heels three times and think, "There's no place like a sugar-free home!  There's no place like a sugar-free home!"  Probably not.  I'd catch sight of my ruby slippers and mistake them for hard candies.  Crushed cherry Jolly Ranchers anyone?  Just the thought makes my mouth water.

My appetite for a daily dose of sweetness used to tempt my resolve in the latter part of the year, specifically the night in October which involves dumping out the contents of pillow cases and bags on the living room carpet and sorting the mini-Almond Joys and Snickers from the rest of the stash.  My kids would look on in mock horror as I transmogrified into the troll at the bridge, demanding payment before crossing.  "You can keep ALL of that," I'd announce, sweeping my arm across the expanse of Twizzlers, Nerds, Smarties, and Skittles, "but I'd better put the chocolates in a special jar in the kitchen cupboard for safe keeping.  They might melt all over everything.  That's all I need is another mess to make you clean!"

But within the past few years, the time frame is vague and I plan to keep it that way, the sugar monster within has reared its rotten-toothed acne-riddled fat face.  It reveals its whereabouts at the most inopportune times, hitting me with cravings at gas stations, driving down the road past small dive restaurants I would usually never wish to frequent, and even when I'm gardening.  I've shifted from an affectionate lover of milk chocolate to a screaming rabid fan of dark chocolate.  At World Market, there exists a sea-salty caramel-centered creation drenched in rich dark cacao goodness.  If my thighs would not revolt against me, I'd consent to a daily dose in a med line!  Jo's Chocolates is the confectioner in case anyone finds they have an itch to scratch.  Scratch!

It doesn't stop with chocolate, though.  Lemon curd gently spooned over a snowy wedge of coconut cake has my eyes taking bites long before the fork reaches my trembling lips.  A pint of Rum Raisin ice cream, with three spoons to alleviate guilt -- my husband and daughter adopt the co-hort roles but everyone knows it's all a show because I shovel the frozen treat down my gullet like it's blocking my driveway and I'm trying to make it to the ER -- stands as a proved PMS and period cure.  And there's no way I can force myself through an entire movie at the theater without the yin of Red Vines or Raisinettes to balance the yang of my smuggled air popcorn!

I think this whole sugar dilemma, butting so unceremoniously against my healthier eating proclivities and producing guilt by proxy, is why I also suffer from an addiction to Kyra Sedgewick's consummate performance on The Closer as Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson.  Her character is fit and flawed.  Under moments of extreme duress or triumph, both of which our heroine experiences on a regular basis, she seeks refuge in the top left drawer of her office desk.  There she keeps a stash of cookies, chocolate candies, Ho-Ho's, and the like.  If you've never seen her painful surrender to the sugar-monster, you ain't seen nothin'!  The way she peels the foil wrapper back from the hard exterior of the Ho-Ho and takes that first bite . . . and later, when she dips her finger in the creamy dark center and eats it all-l-l gone.  Well, I know I ate it with her, and those little fake chocolate hockey pucks aren't even in my top 100!

So if you see me in a coffee shop, incognito with sunglasses and a floppy hat, either join me as I take on my pastry, or better still, my wiggling puddle of custardy flan from Chuy's Mexican Restaurant on Broad Street, or keep on walking.  An intervention would NOT turn out well for you!  Be warned.  Go in peace to your local bakery.

See You On The Flip Side

Goodbyes.  We say them often, for an abundance of reasons.

There are the brief partings.  "Bye bye, kids," as one scrambles for shoes and the other wolfs down the last of the cereal, "Got your lunch checks?"  Or, "Love you. Don't forget your laptop and your glasses," followed by a hug and kiss after an escort to the truck with the travel-mug of steaming coffee, "Goodbye, babe.  See you after work."  Or the reliable text, "Bye, mom.  I left early so I could swing by Starbucks.  Do you want my treat receipt for later?  XOXO."

There are the temporary separations from events or incidents which occur with weekly or monthly frequency.  "Well, that's all I got for now.  Tell everyone 'hi,' and I'll call you again next Saturday morning," says the husband to his mother, all the while sipping his morning brew from the favorite pink mug and catching the 80's rock show on MTV from his couch perch, "Goodbye, Olives."  Or this,  "I-i-i think I remembered everything, " murmurs the grown-up daughter to her Earthmama, hoping her toothbrush and charging cord are in her bag in the back of the truck, "We'll have to watch the other movie next time I stay the night.  Thanks for my special breakfast!  Bye.  Love you."  And, the often drawn out, "Another day for the books, ladies.  I really needed this," four pairs of amused female eyes blink in agreement as purses are gathered and keys held at the ready, "When can we do this again so we can eat and laugh and solve the problems of the world AND our children . . . and have it all posted on Facebook as it happens?!"

But the parting of ways becomes a bit more problematic during travel or visits on the rare occasion by friends and relatives.  "We promise to come for the graduation.  When is it again?  Send the date," far-away fun cousins offer in consolation as a fully-loaded full-sized SUV prepares to hit the highway for a two-day trip back East,  "It was so-o much fun.  We love you all.  Bye.  BYE.  B-Y-Y-Y-E . . . "  Several sets of hands, big and little, wave furiously in tandem until craned heads in the backseat can see them no longer.  Or tougher,  "Grandma, you can't go!  Stay 'til Christmas.  Ple-e-ase?!?" whine two playful grandkids, a touch melancholy to see their two-month guest fly away home.  She replies, "Oh, honey.  If I could do that, I would.  I love you kids, and your mommy and your daddy, so-o much.  Bye now, sweeties," and she disappears with the crowd through security and beyond.  And toughest, "3:40.  They gave us 10 extra minutes, but they're turning the lights off," states the road-weary older sister to her baby brother as they both nod at the guards and embrace one final time on this their seventh and last time together in the visiting room of the institution, "Remember we can talk on the phone whenever we want.  I'll keep racking up the miles for another trip.  Maybe even with the kids and their dad.  I'm NOT saying good bye.  Just 'until next time!'"

And that's only a handful of examples.  People leave jobs.  People leave homes and neighborhoods.  People leave states and countries.  Those goodbyes most often signal a more permanent departure with less chance of another hello and goodbye scenario.  Even with e-mail and the like, most folks simply don't forge bonds strong enough to withstand distance and separation.  Or, yes, they did swap secrets and laugh over life, but out of sight soon becomes out of mind.  Military types leave with no guarantee as to their return in the same condition whence they left.  Those goodbyes wrench the heart and imagination.  I think I'd prefer, "Go on now.  Come home quick!"  And the dying wish to convey as much as is humanly possible in the time they have left.  Their goodbyes more resemble a swansong of sorts rather than a sayanora, see you later, pal.  This is perhaps the ultimate farewell -- the final curtain call.

As for me, aside from the simple scenes of obvious ending, I tend to stray far away from actually saying goodbye.  I don't like it.  In my life, I moved too much without benefit of closure.  So, it's often difficult to do now.  One of my uncles is the same way.  Whenever he hangs up from one of our marathon phone calls which come once every month and a half or so, his 'bye' is a stilted awkward bit of verbal trippage that I always wish he could take back.  I prefer to consider each call a chapter in an ongoing larger conversation.  And if some audible form of leave-taking is required, synonymous phraseology should be utilized.  For instance, "Later."  Or, "When next we meet."  Or opt for the lighter sounding foreign versions, such as, "Vaya con dios," and "Adieu," and even, "Auf Wiedersehen."

Or, when a piece of writing is approaching the end and in danger of fizzling, simply sign off with an affectionate, "I gotta go, yo!"             

Say Hello to My Little Friend

I could wax on about the recent release of Mockingjay, which is the highly anticipated third book in the super popular The Hunger Games trilogy.  Regardless of whether teens are the target audience or not, you simply must read this series!  And hurry because the movies are already coming down the pike.

I could give you my take on Tiger Wood's ex-wife's only interview to the world at large through People magazine.  Elin Nordegren made what I consider to be a smart and conservative move with that choice.  The readership is widespread and varied, without going too far into serious news subjects or too low into gossip rag coverage.  And she showed her strength, not to mention her ability to hold back for the sake of self-respect and her children, in what she allowed herself to say in a several-day 17-hour interview.  I hope she sticks to her "I'm saying it once and THAT'S it" promise.  I wish her the best during this tough time.  Money or not, heartbreak is heartbreak.

I could regale you with tales of the 33 Chilean miners yet trapped deep beneath the earth.  They've already sustained themselves for 17 days on 2 days' worth of emergency food!  At last hearing, it appears they'll have to subsist in this way -- though with more food and water and oxygen via outside assistance -- for months while another way in is drilled.  Can you imagine?

But no.  No.  Instead, I would prefer to introduce you to my latest iPhone app: My Fitness Pal.  We're friends now.  We met on Saturday afternoon, and we're like THIS (fingers crossed) four days later.  Need to track what you eat and how many calories it contains?  Search the database of over 450,000 foods or create your own entry tailored to your cooking and grazing habits.  Want to know how long it'll take you to lose 15 pounds at 1 pound per week or 2 pounds per week?  Punch in your information and within minutes you'll be wondering how to ingest only 1,200 or 1,400 calories a day for a good many days.  Did you ever wonder just how many calories are burned when you walk or run or swim at varying speeds?  Now's the time to find out.  And, those burned calories are added to your daily intake calories, thus allowing a bit more eating from one day to the next.  You can't go wrong with this bit of technological gadgetry.  So all you iPhoners on a body mission, take a look-see and discover for yourself.

As for me?  I'm ahead of the game tonight.  There's a few extra calories I'm prepared to consume with my Earth Divas tomorrow.  If I recollect rightly, Devonshire cream and lemon curd are in my palatable future!

P.S.  My Fitness Pal is free and also available online!

Superlative Days

The funniest item I heard today was actually something I read.  On Facebook.  My cousin posted that her friend's request for a Starbuck's drink went like this, "I'll have one of those iced caramel my-coyotes, like you got me that one time."  Had me how-w-w-ling with laughter!

The best thing I did today?  Shopping with only the vaguest of plans but the warmest of hearts for a package soon to be snail-mailed to one of my bestest buds.  Tuesday next she hits 50 years of life, and that deserves a celebration in a box.  Ask around.  It's a specialty of mine.  I hit upon a theme, and I run with it.  My only regret is that I won't be there to see her open it.

The most unexpected but thoroughly welcomed surprise of the day arrived on the heels of a bag of Organic Yukon Blend coffee beans.  Mister Starbucks barista asked if I wanted a drink to go with my purchase.  "Sadly, no," I informed him because I'd been unable to snag my daughter's $2 treat receipt.  And then he reminded me that a free tall drink came with them there beans.  Glory be! and pass the iced soy latte with an extra shot of decaf for flavor!  If I was 30 years older, I'd say "what a nice young man."  But I'm still 40, so I'll say, "How professional of him to remind a paying customer of their earned Gold card services!"  He was very nice, though.

Backing out of today and reversing into Sunday past, my biggest coup of that day revolved around an afternoon shopping trip with my daughter.  For bras of all things.  My girls, like so many other girls and ladies today, have come under the seductive and highly expensive spell of Victoria's Secret.  They've insisted no other brand, no other store, could match their undergarments, especially the bras.  I scoffed at the idea, especially since their exposure to other makes and models is limited by their ardent affection for all things 'Vicky.'  They bring new meaning to the term 'brand loyalty.'

So on this Sunday after church, I suggested an outing with my high schooler.  Daughter, not son.  I only asked that she merely try one other store -- JCPenney.  "They have great clearance sales and you could buy several instead of just one if they have what you're looking for."  She said yes.  I said wonderful.  And off we went.  We scoured the racks, starting with the new stuff and working our way to the sales.  She oohed and aahed over the understated elegance of the fitting room.  And we left the store -- not a supermodel poster in sight -- with four brand new inexpensive but well-fitting foundation garments.  All for the cost of one inflated, in more ways than one, bra from the oversexed, uber-scented, garishly pink center of modern day lingerie mongering.  Score one for mom and the checkbook!

There you have it.  Coffee, bras, freebies, and boxes.  It's all I got for now.  And that's good enough.

Bedtime Trajectory

Again with the bedtime passing me by.  It beckons me, waving me on, urging me to follow, but I tend to turn my head and avert my eyes as it passes by like the passenger on the backseat of a classic Harley.  "Keep on riding, my friend, head on down that drowsy highway without me," says me.  I'm a bit rebellious about the whole sleep thing.  Lately, it's been a bit rebellious with me.  What did I expect?  The thirties went bye-bye almost a year ago.  My entire body has been busy letting me know just that.  It's holding onto things, like weight and aches, and penalizing me for not adhering to less than perfect standards with things like SLEEP!  The middle joints of my middle fingers hurt -- and NO, I don't make a regular practice of flipping people off, though I did, in fact, flip myself off in front of the bathroom mirror once a couple of years back . . . but I deserved it!  My face looks thinner while the area around my hips and midsection seems fuller; it must be the fatty deposits migrating from my mug, huh?  And, my short term memory has never performed at such alarming rates of forgetfulness as it now does.  I think daydreaming and distraction go along with that: the other day, I almost put the measured cat food in the water boiling on the stove instead of the meowing cat's dish.

So, rebellious me sits in the worn dark brown leather recliner in our living room, wondering why Wal-Mart was out of the colored duct tape necessary to slap over the stuffing exposed by our nail-sharpening cat.  It's not like his scratching post isn't five feet away.  We do spray him with water or phhhsssst! him off with a loud disciplinary hiss.  I'll grab him and set him on the carpeted cat toy if I catch him.  But we can't be around every time he has an urge to lay his paws on the side of the chair.  Thus, applications of brown duct tape to the grievous wounds.

In the background, the lullaby strains of laundry spinning in the dryer reminds me that duties are never done.  As if I actually needed that particular recollection.  I did try to go to bed early.  At 10PM.  I cozied up to the husband, spooning his warm form, one arm over his, looking directly at the back of his right ear.  And, I feigned sleep for a time, hoping it would become a fact instead of a ruse.  When it became clear that I was too restless to remain supine, I crept stealthily to a familiar spot before our Samsung television with my yoga mat in tow and tightened my tush to the strains of a new series on Showtime -- which DirecTv has activated for three free months as a loyalty gift . . . without asking us -- about a stay-at-home mom who finds out she has cancer.  The Big C.  With Laura Linney.  The main character starts changing all of the things which have bugged her for years.  One by one.  While it may not be my ideal cup of tea, it did stimulate a few clear thoughts.  Doesn't really take too much to get me thinking.

Why do we human beings wait for bad news to alter our trajectory?  If there is an element to our existence which displeases us, pushes us down, hurts our heart, or squelches our soul, and we are in a position to change that situation, why don't we do it more often?  How come someone has to die or be diagnosed with a serious illness before we realize it's okay to express ourselves?  It's fine and dandy to eat dinner for breakfast every day of the week if you want.  It isn't required of you to clean your house and wear yourself to a frazzle just because company is showing up on short notice.  There's nothing wrong with telling someone that you feel the friendship is strained and in order to rectify that you need to tell you how you're feeling and what you're sensing.  Spending years grumbling over the same five pounds is a waste of time before the years pass!  And do you really want to pass on the art of busily stressing over time-sucking goals which have been determined by the countless 'theys' of this world to your impressionable children?

If a certain woman of a certain age is calling herself The Reluctant Suburbanite, there's a reason.  She's just got to figure it out and alter her own trajectory on her own terms.  Until then, soy lattes will have to keep her going.

Peachy Keen

One of my readers requested a blog entry with 'Georgia Peaches' at its center.  For two weeks, the idea  ripened, transforming from green to yellow to blush, but each time I tried to pick it, my mind wandered to another orchard in some other meadow. 

Originally, a witty poem seemed the right way to go, considering this particular reader is a redheaded powerhouse of a gal with a sly sense of humor who hails from Georgia by way of  Ohio.  With 23 years of living invested in 'The Empire State of the South,' she's all Georgia peaches and cream.  Her friendships and fond memories, those formative high school and college years, not to mention that lilting accent -- with just a smidgen of Valley Girl courtesy of early childhood exposure to California -- all can be blamed on Tennessee's gracious Southern neighbor.  And the way she waxes on about college football come fall, you'd a thunk Georgia popularized the bulldog instead of the English and French!  Though I've never actually had cause to see her bleed, I'm certain she would ooze sticky peach juice.

But the poem refused to take form.  So, I wandered online to educate myself a bit on the ACTUAL Georgia peach.  Interestingly enough, though I dabble in horticulture, my interest in peaches never ventured beyond drinking the most sublime Bellini (white peach puree and cold Italian prosecco are a must!) and a mental snapshot I hold of consuming generous servings of homemade ice cream at one of my grandpa's huge birthday parties (full fat milk and cream from his dairy, coupled with locally grown road stand peaches harvested at the peak of flavor perfection).  I daresay those California peaches my aunt bought for that batch of frozen confection goodness wouldn't have been around in such copious quantities if a certain young man in Georgia had not followed his heart and his head back in the late 1800's.

Though Georgia now grows 40 different varieties of peaches and produces 140 million pounds annually, it all started with a boy raised on a family plantation in Macon County.  Well, let's back up for a bit of pre-history.  Peaches arrived in Georgia by way of Franciscan monks who planted them along the coastal islands in the 1500's with stock originally grown in Florida.  In the mid-1700's, the Cherokee Indians cultivated them inland.  A confederate officer and farmer was credited with the first successful shipping and selling of peaches in the mid-1800's; he also introduced Champagne baskets in place of pulverized charcoal for transport, which I deem a highly appropriate move, considering the Bellini (which was not created until 1943).

Now, back to the boy, one Samuel H. Rumph, all grown up and intensely curious about experimenting with fruit trees.  After more than a decade of such leanings, he produced a standout specimen: a clear seeded peach with yellow flesh and a crimson blush on its cheek which impressed those in such circles as his.  It became known as the Elberta peach, named after his wife.  This variety was flavorful, shipped well, adapted to all manner of climates, and soon reigned supreme in the peach world. 

The Elberta, which was distributed in the newly designed packing crates Mr. Rumph also developed, transformed the peach industry into a successful and lucrative business, with Georgia at it's center, proud of its designation as The Peach State.  Macon County still holds top billing in this market all these many years later.  The Elberta is not one of the 40 species of peaches grown in Georgia today, but that only speaks to the continued evolution of one of nature's most delicious and charming fruits.  And I confess to seeking out the label to ensure I'm getting a bagful of pure Southern sunshine every time I buy.

Grandma Rita's homemade jam or cobbler with cream, anyone?

Blah Blah Blah

This space is under construction.  All worthy thoughts have left the building.  Not even humor can penetrate the fog.  This morning, all manner of titillating subject matter hovered above my head like a sweet little flock of flying Disney bluebirds.  Would that make me Snow White or Cinderella?  This evening, er, post-midnight, they are scattered at my feet like so many blackbirds filled with buckshot.  I've tested with my toes but nary a one is twitching.  Inspiration, at least for now, is dead.  Muerte! 

So, take care of yourself as the weekend approaches.  Step around the fecund fowl beneath you.  And if you happen to stay in a hotel or catch a movie, watch out for bed bugs!  Evidently they're everywhere.  As if we needed one more thing to fret about.  (Like that dangling preposition there.)

     

Smiling With My Liver

Elizabeth Gilbert is a writer out of New York. 

After experiencing a major life crisis, divorce in this case, which left her feeling hollow and without passion for anything or anyone, she decides she needs a year off from her everyday existence.  Her decision leads her to Italy, India, and Indonesia where she discovers balance through eating, praying, and loving.  Upon her return, she put it all down in book form: a move which propelled her into bookstores and households across American and the world.  As a crowning compliment to her achievements, Julia Roberts portrayed her in a widely advertised film.  It was recently released to the public.

Tonight I saw it with my daughter and a few girlfriends.  We giggled and sighed and conetemplated throughout.  Accompanied, of course, by the prerequisite smuggled bags of air popcorn and a box of Red Vines for interested parties with discriminating palates.  Amy Alaska and I chastely agreed that Javier Bardem was quite a soothing balm for the eyes; Neighbor Betsy came up with the term 'pizza pants' to describe the jean hunt our heroine took to accomodate her pasta-grown muffin top.  We all agreed that eating our way through Italy seemed an appropriate use of three months of our lives!

Though I don't meditate or chant or need someone to interpret the lines on my palm, I am a seeker after God and the balance He desires me to have in life.  As a practicing and growing Christian, I filter what I see and hear through that perspective.  Without going too deep, I drew many parallels between Elizabeth's search and what many of us are desiring and attempting in our own lives.  I listened to the book during my morning walks last fall, long before I knew a movie with my gal was on the horizon.  Then, it was the author's voice narrating the story.  Even with Julia's distinctive voice, I could still hear the other woman, the originator of the words, throughout the movie.  Because it's her story.

I've got my own story to live out.  I've even got a few I want to write out.  And, I'm endlessly fascinated by the stories being lived out by those around me.  Some decidedly more so than others, of course.  The thought which struck me as the credits began to roll, and all of us gals stood to shake the stray snack crumbs from our clothes, was how so many of us, me included, stand in our own way.  I've struggled against that in certain areas for a lifetime.  But I don't want to accept it as my forever regular.

I recalled advice I've suggested to my little brother just about every other phone call.  He's caught in behavioral patterns that lead him down the same spiraling path every few months.  Then, he lathers, rinses, and REPEATS.  It's not working.  My suggestion was for him to do or think the opposite of his initial impulses or thought processes.  Intentionally shove them out of the way and go in a completely foreign direction.  If he thinks, "Cuss and scream and throw furniture to rail at the unfairness of the system!" then opt for "Be silent and go sit down somewhere for a few minutes."

On the drive home, I realize I need to take my own advice.  Work on opposing a few of my own regular thoughts and feelings with substitutions from the 180 degree side of things.  What's good for the gosling is surely good for the goose.  Instead of thinking, "I must learn to control my emotional eating to be a better successful person," I might try, "Better eating habits will help me to feel less out of control and allow me to emote in healthier arenas."

It's difficult to erase that inner dialogue.  But if that is what is at our core and is what we believe, then it is what we will live out externally to the world.  I want to empty the trash from my house so the Lord can rush in to fill the newly cleared and inviting space.  One opposite mind-altering thought at a time.

Wanna join me?  Perhaps soon, we will smile in our livers.

A 'Fan'-tastic Story

A funny thing happened on the way to the movie theater last Friday night.  My husband and I are waiting in line with our expensive tickets to be allowed entry to the latest and greatest.  An animated young woman of indiscriminate mousy blondeness and average build noticed we answered the call to the same showing as her.  "Are you here to see 'Eclipse?'" she queried as she fell in step with us down the darkened hall.  Our affirmative reply had barely escaped our lips before she set in once again, "This is my anniversary.  Tonight is my 30th time seeing it.  Have you seen it before?"  All of this was delivered in a rapid-fire monologue that she would keep up for the next 20 minutes, stopping only to hear my questions or comments.  Not that either of us had any idea that this was to be our immediate future.

"Are you prone to motion sickness or migraine headaches.  If not, if you really want to SEE the movie, FEEL like you're right there with Bella and Jake and everyone else, I'll tell you where the best seat in the house is," our uninvited companion declared as she pointed to the very front row in the small theater, "Right there!  You should really sit there!"  We politely declined, laughingly pointing out that our older necks couldn't handle it, "But you sit there and enjoy your 30th!"

She didn't take the hint.  Following us to our seats, middle ones with the center aisle in front of us, this eager fan leaned on the metal rail and prattled on, "As I said, I'm from Forks.  Been here only two weeks.  It seems so dry here compared to Washington."  Forks is the real-life town which is the setting for the fictional vampire-werewolf romance movie series of which tonight's is the third installment.  Ah, I guess, this one needs attention.  Even as I thought this, her 'Eclipse' t-shirt clad self found its way into the chair next to me.  There was a good 15 minutes between now and the start of the film.  There was no way she was watching the entire thing sitting next to us, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to listen to her for a few more minutes.  This kind of thing doesn't exactly happen every day.

As she launched into her personal story on how she ended up at MTSU -- our branch of the Tennessee State University -- for the criminology or forensic studies (can't remember which), my husband excused himself for the restroom.  I knew he expected to find our new friend entrenched in the front row of the theater by the time he returned.  My desires were similar and heartfelt.  But an emptied bladder later, my date arrived to find that the only thing gone was almost half a bag of our large popcorn!

After a particularly energetic soliloquy on how she met the actress Jenny Garth and her children -- Jenny is married to the actor who plays the 'father' vampire -- and actually handed a donut to the youngest, "Like, it was a moment, you know?  It's not every day someone gives a donut to a famous person's kid!" our long-winded storyteller stopped to drink from her water bottle.  Politely staring to the left, grinning at my husband, I felt his elbow jab my ribs, once, twice.  I realized she was still drinking.  Chugging vigorously with her head fully tilted back, bottle upended, bubbles glug-glug-glugging, until it was all gone.  "I was a touch thirsty.  There's more where that came from.  I'll down three entire bottles before the movie is over."

Finally, finally, evidently confident that she had divulged every tidbit of information concerning how Forks had been affected by the influx of fans from the 'Twilight' series, how her best friend had a great job as a tour guide at $50 a pop, how they were allowed to watch on set in exchange for making coffee runs for certain stars who were not at their best without constant steaming mugs in their possession, how Bella Swan is paged at the high school every day, how she learned something new with every viewing, and how she felt a connection to the characters because of all this, our fair lady of the frenzied confab bid us adieu.  But not before promising to find out what we thought of the movie at the end.  "Remember to watch for the bed scene!  You'd never know she was throwing up in between takes.  She's a pro!"

For the next two hours plus, we were gloriously alone in Forks, Washington with Bella, Jacob, and Edward.  Jimmy napped off and on.  I watched, for the most part interested, squirming in my uncomfortable seat toward the end.  Eventually, the final scene came and went, the credits rolled, and we giggled over the vast amounts of popcorn and candy we had consumed during this highly extolled but somewhat lackluster flick.

And true to her word, 'Twilight' purse swinging from her shoulder, MTSU's newest student was waiting to poll us.  She listened and nodded and heard us out . . . and at the 'Y' in the hall, by the secondary concession stands which are hardly ever open, we parted ways with a wave and goodbye.  I'm not sure that either party really knows if Forks' actually lost a citizen recently to Murfreesboro, Tennessee or if the Internet and television allowed a lonely uber-fan enough information to create her own fantasy life within a life. 

Dare I risk paying $9 next summer to see 'Breaking Dawn' and find out?   

My Favorite Use for Summer Tomatoes

Pull out the medium saucepan and the small deep-sided frying pan.  Fill the saucepan 3/4 full of salted water; set frying pan on front large burner.  Also fetch a wine glass and kitchen plane grater -- both will go a long way in making this preparation that much more enjoyable, for entirely different reasons.

Locate your whole-wheat noodle pasta, preferably fettuccine or linguine, though thin spaghetti will perform admirably as a substitute.  Set the aforementioned pan of water to boil.

Round up butter, olive oil, one medium lemon, a bunch of Italian parsley, one substantial garlic clove, a handful of cut basil leaves (any variety) from the garden or patio, a mini bottle of white wine (Pinot Grigio or Sauvignon Blanc works best for this), fresh tomatoes from your yellowing but still yielding late-summer vines (I love grape or yellow pear for this dish), and one can of Snow's chopped clams.

Set out the cute prep dishes you nabbed for a song at Ross or Marshalls, and array them above the cutting board.  Into each will go the ingredients as they are sliced, diced, drained, and readied for quick cooking.

Turn the frying pan on medium heat.

Rough chop the green herbs, enjoying the release of savory fragrance into your kitchen air space.  Slice enough small tomatoes in half or larger tomatoes into bite-sized pieces to equal between 1 to 2 cups, as desired.  Drain the clams, saving the liquid.  Open the wine, pouring half into your glass -- adding an ice cube if you pulled it straight from the pantry -- and reserving the rest on the counter top near the frying pan.  Mince the garlic and leave it clinging to the knife so as to scrape it quickly into what will momentarily be a flavorful light pasta sauce.

Keeping the pasta whole, gently coerce its entirety into the boiling water -- about 4 to 6 ounces ought to do it --using tongs to separate the noodles as they bend and start to cook.  Set the timer for al dente.  Have your colander on hand.

Melt 1 tablespoon of butter with 1 tablespoon of olive oil (I used Extra Virgin, regardless of what is best atop heat).  When it ju-ust begins to bubble, toss in the tomatoes and stir to release the juices.  Simmer and sip your wine.

If a sudden rainstorm develops, open the back door or sink window and enjoy the soothing sound of the falling water against the earth.  And then get back to your pan and add the garlic.  Stir again.  Simmer and sip.  You're catching on now.

Toss in the basil and parsley.  Stir.  Pour the balance of the wine in the bottle (alas) and 3/4 of the clam juice into the mix.  Lift the pan by the handles and gently tip back and forth a few times.  Set it down and allow the contents to again simmer as you sip.  Drop in a teaspoon more of butter.  Directly over the sauce, grate as much lemon rind as you wish into what is now an almost perfect mix of sea and summer and (hopefully) Sauvignon.  Repeat previous alliterated actions.

Drain your pasta, if you haven't already.  Return it to the pan, rinsing if with warm water if you prefer to stop any further cooking from occurring.  Coat lightly with non-stick cooking spray to discourage clumping.

Into a sturdy handsome piece of crockery, I own several 'special' pasta/cereal bowls, put an appropriate portion of noodles determined by your needs and wants.  Spoon at LEAST half of the clam sauce atop this.  Tonight, I had 1 cup cooked pasta and the entire contents of the small deep-sided frying pan.  Though I did not mention bread, it is -- as always -- a wonderful vehicle for absorbing excess sauce

Take yourself, the wine left in your glass (if any?), and the bowl to a cozy spot at your table, island bar, or couch.  If desired, Parmesan or any other nutty grating cheese is always welcome to the party.  For pretty, basil leaves or extra chopped Italian parsley would do well as a finish.  Even, dare I breathe it, a curl or two of lemon peel.

Except for those with an obvious dislike of clams or tomatoes, I dare you to NOT absolutely adore this exceptional use of summer tomatoes!

Fear of Driving?

How do we learn to get from point A to point B?  I mean in cars, going places, making plans, independent of our parents, sure in our own minds we can figure it all out, even if we miss the exit, even if the directions on MapQuest don't quite cut the mustard?  Don't we just grab hold of the spirit embedded in that by now pervasively famous Nike imperative and "Just DO It?!"

My eldest daughter took today off from work.  I think she wanted to go where the wind took her without feeling rushed or pushed or pulled.  Between her full-time secretarial job during the week and her part-time hostessing job during the weekend, her schedule has been a bit packed.  I'm proud of her for sticking with it all so admirably.  She actually walked the 1-mile route I take the dog on each morning with me; I enjoyed her company.  After a few chores and showering , we met up at Starbuck's for beverages and chit-chat.  And, then she asked for directions to a town not far from here but requiring a series of turns and exits to reach.  That's where the trouble began.

My explanation of general directions did not meet with her comfort level.  I couldn't name the exact exit  to the shopping area she wanted, but told her it was easy enough to recognize.  Furrowing her brow in worry, she said I should just go with them.  I told her I needed to write.  She could find it, I was quite sure.  She felt her boyfriend should drive because she was uncomfortable not knowing exactly how to arrive at her desired destination.  He hemmed and hawed a bit, mumbling something about her chewing him out if it all went wrong, making it clear his internal compass wasn't clear on the way to the promised land, either.

"I'll make you nervous IF I drive," I heard her announce to him.

"You make me nervous WHEN you drive," was his reply.

I sat in silence for a moment.  Mulling over this dilemma.  It sounded as if the thrust of her entire day off was about to go askew over her lack of confidence in finding this right-off-the-highway town.

"You know, there's no need to stress over this.  If you take the wrong exit, just return to the main road.  Try again.  You can get yourself where you need to be without mom or a boyfriend.  People do it all the time.  No need to rely on everyone else to tell you where you need to be.  Trust yourself to drive.  It's okay," she seemed to hear me, "Really.  Just go.  Don't panic if you get lost.  You aren't ever THAT lost."  Be encouraged, girl, I thought to myself.  C'mon!

I didn't want her to continue to accept this idea about herself.  I could see her life unrolling before her through the years, limiting her driving to wherever her boyfriend or husband thought she should or could drive, never allowing herself to try and gain the confidence to venture out on her own.  I have an uncle who used to tell his wife of many years that she didn't have what it took to drive on the highway.  Because she was already anxious about it, having only learned to drive in her late forties, she deferred to his opinion and her distrust of her abilities only grew.  What she needed was his encouragement in her growing skills as a new driver.  That's not what she got.  It was such a shame, I felt, to see a hardworking, deserving, strong woman in so many other ways, falter right at freedom's door.

But, to be honest, this isn't all about driving, is it?  It's about fear.  It's about life.  And the relationship between the two.  Fear should never be the driving factor in life.  No pun intended.  As a woman on the brink of full-fledged maturity, my wish is to see her walk out on those wobbly young adult legs and strengthen their muscles, loosen their joints, test and challenge their stride.  She gains momentum with each baby step.  Before we all know it, she'll pass through the halls of higher learning and grab on to that degree in the allied health field which will lead to a secure paycheck in the field of ultrasonography.

It all starts with her taking the wheel of that black Honda Civic, jumping onto 840, veering off at the I-65 junction, and exiting in Cool Springs at Mallory Lane.  She can watch for the signs.  Ask for help if necessary.  And grab a few items from Whole Foods for her mom.        

Miscellany Before Midnight

Note to self: don't take the iPhone to bed.  Don't log onto Facebook for a 'quick peek.'  Never, ever reply to comments by Annette or Laurie because, like pistachios and M&M's and Pringles, none of us can ever just stop at one!  (That sentence made me crave a good sugar-n-salt fix all over again.  SIGH.)

It took me more than ten minutes to select and buy OTC lubricating eye drops for use tomorrow in my husband's post-op left eye.  After comparing active ingredients, fluid ounce contents, brand names, label speak, and prices, my daughter finally put an end to it by suggesting I ask the pharmacist for her opinion.  Why didn't I think of that?  I'll tell you why . . . because my PMS brain can't think its way out of a clear plastic storage baggie with the zip-seal left open!  The smallest decision becomes an enormous mental road block with a highly confused chicken on one side, scratching in the dirt, and craving Pretzel M&M's and popcorn drizzled with warm honey.  Do you know how good fresh popcorn is with regular M&M's tossed in?  My aunt taught me that little snacking ditty.

But I digress.  You don't seem surprised!

About the Intac surgical procedure my husband is undergoing tomorrow afternoon in Nashville.  It's been a long time coming.  His left eye has bothered him for years, but his condition went undiagnosed until late in 2008 when he visited the optometry office of a friend of ours from church.  A topographic image of his eye revealed the problem.  Keratoconus is a deterioration of the structure of the cornea with gradual bulging from the normal round shape to a cone shape -- that's what he has in both eyes.  But the eye in question is significantly more affected.  He tried several types of hard contacts, to press the bulge down, but too much damage had occurred to allow this treatment to be effective.  The surgery, whereby implants which flatten the corner are inserted, will allow him to wear contacts with comfort in order to enjoy fully corrected vision.  Eventually, the right eye will follow suit.

My mother had cataract surgery in one of her eyes just a couple of weeks ago.  I was her companion for that day, the night, and the following day.  She tucked me in and cooked for me instead of vice-versa.  Her recovery went well and somewhat swiftly.  There was ONE defining moment of support whereby I was handed the opportunity to shine as her compassionate support system representative.  That was during the pre-op portion of the program.  And I failed.  Miserably.  My curiosity was so heightened that when I was called back to sit at her bed while she awaited the good doctor's final ministrations before scalpel-time (no laser), I lightheartedly remarked that her eye was about to be delicately sliced with amazing precision and it was hard to believe they didn't make all kinds of mistakes.  Turning to look at me with her one good eye, the other held an enlarged pupil swimming in numbing gel, she softly spoke, "Please don't say things like that."  Why, I could of had a V-8 at that moment!  What an idiot I was.  So insensitive.  And to my own tired and mildly fearful elderly mother. 

I watched in amazement when the doc wrote directly on her eyeball with a special marker and she didn't flinch even a wee bit.  Three tiny black marks, unmoving specks on the surface of the orb.  That action screamed for a picture, a Facebook photo update, but I had promised her not to click away.  I kept that promise.

And, I promise here tonight that I will not tell Jimmy how a small series of cuts will be made into the firm gelatinous goo of his eyeball to facilitate the insertion of foreign objects.  Instead, I'll lean in close and plant a good strong soy latte kiss on lips that will have enjoyed a Starbucks cappuccino just an hour or so before.  He's allowed to eat or drink, lightly.

To the rest of you, I blow a dreamy goodnight kiss -- bearing a scent reminiscent of lemon custard and Hawaiian pizza.  Catch it if you dare.  I'm off to bed.  For real this time. 

A Costly Reminder

Last week I came as close to a full-blown breakdown as I could get without actually falling into the bottomless pit of despair.  ATT Wireless was involved.  My entirely too busy life, whereby additions are continually made at the top without subtracting on the bottom, was to blame.  In the process of trying to keep it all going, I allowed my guard to relax in areas where normally I'm quite detail oriented.  The case in point involves record keeping.

For about three weeks, callers have informed me that the voice mail on my cell phone is full.  Back in late June, when my husband updated my phone before my California trip, there was a strange pop-up which continually harassed me from the touch screen of Girlfriend.  It asked for a password to access voice mail.  Though it was a nuisance, there was no time to mull it over or make a drawn-out call to ATT for problem shooting.  My over-tasked low-on-sleep brain did not connect the dots.

One afternoon, after an hour long phone session with my little brother in Napa -- who again reminded me that my voice mail was not accessible -- I forced myself to stop, sit, and figure out the problem.  I was missing messages.  It was a loose end.  I don't like missing messages OR loose ends!  I logged onto my online account to find the customer service number and noticed that my USED MINUTES box had a long bold RED line in it.  That was unusual.  Red is generally never a good sign with bills and the like.  So, I added that to my list of wireless issues.

When the operator answered, I hit him up with the red line question first.  It had unnerved me and was most unexpected.  And, in my perusal of the screen while waiting for someone to answer, I had come across information which raised further concerns.  His analysis was this: our group plan day minutes and rollover minutes had been exhausted for the billing period, and we were over by 1,500 minutes.  Even as my stomach sank as he broke down what that was in dollars at 40 cents per, my mind filled in the blanks with vivid strokes of realization. 

Back in April, my brother had entered the state hospital.  We began to talk by phone, multiple times a day, sometimes for hours within a day, every single day.  Prior to that, our communication was primarily through letters with one collect phone call a week.  So eager was I to help him in this jail-to-hospital transition that I gave nary a thought as to the change in minutes.

To compound matters, on our plan with four phones -- my husband has his own business line -- I am the big talker.  Everyone else texts.  For months, we had failed to consume our designated minutes and the rollover bank was full, well past 5,000 minutes.  My old habit of checking the entire bill, line by line, went out the window sometime ago; my new habit is to check the abbreviated bill, making sure the overall amount does not waver outside of the regular charges, stopping only to ensure that no one is downloading images or such that rack up extra bucks.  I took for granted the rollover minutes.

"$600, ma'am.  And any calls you've made recently won't be on there.  The new billing cycle starts in two days, so you'll want to be very careful."  It was as if lightning had struck my heart.  Right there on the house phone, in front of a perfect stranger, I sobbed uncontrollably without the power to stop.  Huge wracking cries which shook me from the inside out.  There was physical pain everywhere.  But even with all of that, I prayed simultaneously, begging the Lord to see my heart and see His way clear to help me in this.  This lasted almost the duration of our half hour call -- a true and disturbing first for me.

I apologized to the gentleman on the other end of the line, even as I continued to cry, explaining my situation, wondering out loud how I could possibly have done this irresponsible thing to my family's bottom line.  "I'm usually so careful.  This has never happened to me, to us, before.  Check our history.  You'll see.  I have to make this right.  How can I be punished for trying to help my brother after all we've been through?  There's got to be something I can do to rectify this mess.  Bring the total down.  Anything?!"

It was that proverbial last drop in the very full bucket.  I'd already put out for a bridesmaid experience gone rogue; someone knocked down our mailbox, leaving us with an almost $300 replacement fee; new shocks and tires on the truck; a broken water pump and head gasket on the Yukon; back-to-school and sports fees; the cost of repairing my platinum blonde adventure; and financial assistance we'd extended to help a few loved ones in dire need.  Three kids with fall birthdays yet to come, including a big 18 and 21.  I'd prided myself on paying for the California outing, plane ticket and rental car, out of saved miles on a credit card used expressly for that purpose.  I finagled for the best possible deals, researching online, questioning experts and friends in the know, wanting to place every dollar where it should rightly go.  And balancing the checkbook at every turn in order to keep tabs on our accounts.

So, the phone news was simply too much to absorb. 

I'm happy to report that the ATT representative doled out the correct proportions of professionalism, courtesy, and, yes, even empathy, in my little wireless drama.  He upped my plan to the next level for an additional $20 and 700 extra minutes, and prorated the minutes, knocking 700 of that 1500+ total.  His suggestion was to track our minute 'spending' for a month or two, and to use the A-List feature for the top ten non-ATT numbers we call, including the regular number payphones I call for my brother.  I could return to my old plan without penalty at any time.

After hearing me ask whether a manager or supervisor could do anything more for a loyal and excellent customer, he paused and stated that he was authorized to credit my account for up to $250.  He said that was the limit.  He was sorry that he could go no higher.  But I was relieved.  Even elated.  I thanked him profusely, praised God repeatedly, and managed to restart regular breathing patterns.

I'll fork over the remaining $160 with gratitude for the reminder to slow down and pay attention to those things I've always found important.  If I can't do that, something's gotta give.  Phew! 

Ending The Week

Phew!  Finally.  Time to write.  I actually hold my breath in those moments before user I.D. and password allow me entry onto blogger.com.  A visit to my personal sanctuary from everything and everyone around me.  I need it; not the other way around.

My trip to California allowed for the mulling over of a few changes to my status quo.  One of them being that I should take time out on the weekends, make it special, make it something to which I look forward, and spend some time with the members of my family outside of the house.  Outside of chores.  Outside of the To-Do list that dogs my heels and urges me to fill every waking hour with useful necessary tasks.  In short, have some fun.  Relax in between my walks and the supervising of laundry, dusting, mopping, mowing, weed eating, watering, organizing, and the like.  Allow for the possibility that a day trip, or possibly even an overnight trip, might manifest and urge us to pile into the Yukon.  Let there be unplanned segments to the day open to whatever may come.  Or to absolutely nothing.

It's not that those things don't sometimes happen in my world, but in my mind they are considered a hindrance to getting things done.  I tend to think of the weekends as a time to get more work done.  Often, I'm antsy, restless, wriggling in my seat if sitting, shifting from foot to foot if standing, finding actions to keep my hands busy.  I have to consciously focus on the fun aspect of a given event and force thoughts of what isn't being scratched off my mental list into a cold dark corner!  In fact, I look forward to the painful, often exhausting arrival of my female cycle to get me off of the hook from which I am almost entirely unable to disengage myself.  Biochemical processes cause everything to slow down and the choice to move forward is removed from my decision-making process.  But, sitting propped up on the couch with a heating pad on my abdomen and on my lower back and sweating from it, girded as women must be for the days' battle ahead, ingesting ibuprofen gelcaps like candies -- none of it actually translates as fun.  Or as relaxation.

One of my proudest achievements in this new frontier was my Sunday afternoon nap a few weeks back with my husband on our cuddle-sized couch.  Evidently we must have looked like we were doing it supremely right because my daughter snapped a picture on my iPhone and left it there for us to view upon waking.  Friday night, we hit the movies, gorging on popcorn and Raisinets.  We ran into two fine couples that we knew; sat with one.  Today, we hunted through the numerous coupon books we purchased from various and sundry neighbor and church kids and decided on a Buy One Get One coupon to Long John Silvers.  The food was far from fresh and tasty.  The ice for drinks fell down the chute at the rate of roughly five ice cubes every ten to fifteen seconds.  We had mildly upset tummies and heartburn several hours later.  But we can say we've been there, done that now.  Won't do it again.  We didn't WASTE money.  We ran a few errands.  Enjoyed one another's company.  Once back at home, we simply shared space.  It was perfectly lovely.

Though the final hours of my night ran amok with duties: school supply shopping, late dinner for me and my men, laundry, checkbook balancing, and preparing for the next morning, I took the time to squeeze in a bit of enjoyment.  Namely food.  Wasabi peas.  Yummo!  Manchego cheese.  Sauteed squash.  And, spray whipped cream on my finger tips just like my kids were taught!  Now, I'm ready for bed. 

Work starts tomorrow.  But, I confess to scheduling lunch with a good friend I don't see nearly enough.  Catching up with my peoples is definitely on my To-Do list.  Is it MY fault if it happens to be both fun and relaxing?

She's Headed Outside

Our elderly dog prefers to pant it out in the blistering muggy heat of a Middle Tennessee August afternoon instead of breathing free and easy in the air-conditioned coolness of our ceramic-tiled kitchen.  This preference of hers manifested within the past six months, actually increasing in desire as the weather has heated up.  Because this is not a normal life-cycle behavior for her, we attribute this new habit to her age.  My mom reminded me that some dogs prefer to seek their refuge in the great outdoors, often a distance from their home if possible, as death becomes more imminent.  Though I know that to be true, I don't believe that's the case here.  For one, she seeks out the shady cool spot between the large rocks and the oakleaf hydrangea on the north side of the house: right up against the house.  Secondly, though her hips are tight and her movements a little on the drag n' jerky side, our Husky-mix still loves to walk, often jumping and barking like a pup while she waits impatiently for me to attach the leash that I dangle in a teasing manner before her.

She's just gotten a bit funny in the head with the passing of years.  Never one to exhibit stubbornness, she now displays a decidedly stubborn bent in certain areas.  Mainly, it revolves around this need of hers to be outside.  I'll order her to 'stay.'  She gives me a look which tells me I'm about to watch my dog ignore me and do what she wants to do.  And, then she does it.  Slinking a bit and adopting a slow measured gait, she ambles away, avoiding eye contact though her head is ever so slightly bent in my direction.  Straight to the hidden interior of the dog house she goes.  I follow.  I tip the house.  She clings, trying hard not to spill forth and into my hands.  The other day, in fact, the house was all the way over, with the entrance to the ground, and when I uprighted it, she was still inside.  I win, though.  I have to win because a dog needs to listen to its owner for the sake of safety and that comes with an established hierarchy in the pack.  Usually, I have to grab her by the collar and escort her back into the house.  I make her 'sit' and 'stay.'  Then, she is allowed to return to her weathered little hound hut.  Only once she is given permission and her lead attached, back to the north side she goes.

We realized a few months back that what we at first thought was her ignoring us in all aspects of obedience turned out to be her not hearing us.  To be sure of this, we tested her in a variety of ways.  "Panda, Panda.  Wanna' go on a walk?" was the line we used, starting in a low volumes and steadily increasing with each repetition, watching for any reaction.  We tried this while she was facing us; we tried it when she was turned in the opposite direction.  Until we reached a decidedly higher level of sound than was once necessary, she simply did not react.  I was amazed at this.  Humbled and a bit humiliated by it, in fact, as I thought she was not listening to me during our walks and yanked the leash rather smartly a few times.  I also realized that her need to urinate more frequently but with less output was connected to this apparently sudden aging.  Here I walked her almost every single day since she became a member of this family, and I had missed what was right beneath my nose.

This all makes me a bit sad.  Ever since I was a little dog-loving girl, I'd wanted nothing more than to keep a dog for the entirety of its life.  To see it grow and play.  To escort it on visits to the vet -- someone on the James Herriott side of things.  To sleep with it.  Love on it.  All the way from a fluffy puppy to a graying regal elder of a dog.  I watched that dream slip away several times during my nomadic childhood with Bonnett leading the pack as my emotional favorite.  I helped her deliver her own babies when she was much too young.  Mother and puppies all had to go: my only consolation being their new home was a farm.  

But Panda, though she arrived well into her first year, has been a perfectly lovely and loving pet.  Docile.  Quick to take instruction.  She still sits and watches me until given the signal to eat, even when I perform several tasks to test her ability to resist the urge to chow down.  Though she is a licker, she is not a jumper.  And, she's been so very good with my kids.  We are her pack.  I am her beta; Jimmy's deeper voice still tucks her tail and lowers her head as she defers to his very presence, thus helping him to achieve alpha status.  However, we all know who walks her, brushes her, administers meds, and takes her to the vet.  She listens when I ramble on, talking to her, talking at her.  She is my mellow companion.  And lately, every time I check on her during her outdoor napping sessions, I find myself making sure she is still breathing.  Ensuring myself that she is yet alive.

Though everyone will miss her when she's gone, I feel fairly confident saying I will miss our blue-eyed girl the most.  Both for what she has been to us and what she represents of a girlhood now gone to me.  Until then, it's special recipe in the morning after her one-mile walk and as many afternoons in the humid heat of Murfreesboro as she can stand. 

A Lovely Use of Summer Tomatoes

Take one day's harvest of cherry tomatoes.  Set this on the kitchen island in full view of one's tomato-loving mother-in-law.  Wait.  But not for very long.

After noshing on a few right out of the bucket, she'll be struck by a lovely brainstorm and set to quick work.

To a handsome ceramic bowl full of the whole tomatoes, a generous double drizzle of olive oil is added.  A tight handful of basil leaves, snipped with the Pampered Chef herb scissors she admired so much, finds its way into the mix.  Sea salt and cracked black pepper round out the additions.

After everything is lightly tossed with a large spoon, three forks are handed round to the small crowd watching the preparations.  Everyone agrees there are no communicable illnesses to declare, and the spearing of seasoned summer goodness commences with gusto.  The small red fruit pop like compact bursts of sunshine on the palate.

Please note that the flavored olive oil which remains behind is quite tasty when sopped up with a sturdy piece of bakery Farmhouse white bread, though it is certainly all right to use whatever one has on hand. 

This procedure can be repeated with a rotation of eaters and preparers.  Any basil will work quite nicely.  Enjoy throughout the growing season.