Several years ago, a Catholic school was born. 
I was there, laboring, sweating, dreaming, building, helping birth this little school. I was on the board that hired a little speck of an Irish lady from the south side of Chicago to become our first principal. 
Mary Liddy had been a principal for many years in Chicago, where Catholic schools are as plentiful as good Brat sandwiches. She knew a few things. 
She took me on, telling me she was going to make me work and work hard to build this school. 
A team of parents helped her create a school we could all be proud of. She vowed it would be a school, unlike Catholic schools of the past where nuns ruled with rulers as their weapon of choice and fear and intimidation were the sole motivators to do well. Mary vowed it would be a place full of joy and fun, where children felt free to express and think and learn. 
I was so enthralled by her approach. You see, I was a product of the old Catholic school and I had lived through my own days of intimidation and fear. 
There are no good memories from those days. 
My 6th grade teacher was a nun, a nun so large she had to turn sideways to fit through the door. I wish I was kidding. Along with her weight, she had some major, major issues, the biggest one—anger, that she must have thought would all be solved by entering the convent. 
Unfortunately, they weren't. 
She had dental surgery one time. We came into our classroom that day met by this message, scrawled in gigantic cursive across the chalkboard, "I CANNOT SPEAK THIS MORNING, BUT I CAN STILL HIT YOU."
True Story, sadly.
I was never the brightest bulb on the block when it came to Math. I ruled English and Spelling and Reading, but Math . . . no. Our middle school Math teacher, also a nun, felt the best way to teach math skills was to assign children a math problem which they had to solve on the chalkboard in front of the entire class. With no instruction, you were given your problem. If you didn't have an utter clue on how to solve it, (as I raise my hand shamefully at this moment), you were belittled, screamed at and mainly made to feel like the biggest moron of all times before you were allowed to sit down, trembling— any confidence you had, shattered as you tried to hold in your tears while still not having any idea how to find the reciprocal of a decimal mixed number.
I don't even think I bothered to tell my parents about it. Those were different days when parents didn't think to question teachers, doctors or anyone of authority. 
Me, I'm all about challenging the authority.
I am a mother bear when it comes to my kids and if anyone ever treated my children like that, I would have marched up to school and torn them apart limb by limb with my words. 
Ask anyone. 
I demand respect and accountability but in return I give back the same. I gave our little school the greatest portion of my years with them and I gave them three well behaved girls who always did their best, because they knew their mother would tolerate nothing less. 

That school has been one of the most pivotal things of our life. The folks of that little school became our second family. My children made life-long friends there. When my father died, the entire school wrapped their arms around me and didn't let go. Some of our best friends came from that school. 
When the school was finally built, Mary called me and said, "Come on up. I want to give you a tour of your new school." 
Mary walked us through the school, proudly showing off the lockers and the sparkling new desks, the pre-school, the science lab, the art studio, and all the rest. 
When we got to the pre-school rooms, Mary said with an Irish glint in her eye, "Here's one of my favorite things."
She turned to my baby, my 3-year old girl, ready to start school for the first time in her little life and said, "Julia, come here I want to show you something very special in your classroom." She opened the door to the tiniest toilet I have ever seen. 
I never thought I'd say a toilet was cute, but this darn thing was so unbelievably cute. 
Julia turned to Mary and said without missing a beat, "Can I use it?"
Mary couldn't have been more delighted. There was many a time she reminded Julia that she was the first student to use the potty at our brand new school. I couldn't wait to embarrass Julia at her 8th grade graduation with the potty story.


To give you a little insight into this great lady, I'll tell you a story:
As backwards as the Catholic Church can be sometimes, they are on top of their game when it comes to sex education. Sex education begins with fundamentals at an early stage. By the sixth grade, they learn the full blown plan involving birds and bees and boys and girls. 
So much better than our generation. 
My entire sex education revolved around a frank conversation I had in the 3rd grade with a very sophisticated, in-the-know 5th-grader. My cosmopolitan friend took me aside and told me a woman gets pregnant when a man pees on her . . . ANNNND, she informed me in her worldly fashion, the woman likes it. 
I tried to prep myself for years for the whole pee thing. I tried to convince myself that when that gross day came, I too, would find an unfathomable way to like it. Man, was I ever relieved when I found out the truth! I never could get into the golden showers no matter how hard I tried. 
I was in the room when the 6th grade girls got the big talk. They'd hired someone from the county, some expert in the area of grossing kids out by talking to them about sex. 
She was awful. Dry and boring, stating the facts. She looked embarrassed, cringing as names of body parts came out of her mouth. Ironic, I thought as I sat there— an embarrassed sex instructor.
After her excruciating talk, the girls were ready to flee the room, but then Mary stood up and announced she had a few things to add. 
Mary gave them the most empowering 5 minutes some of those girls might ever know. She spoke of respect. She spoke of respecting their bodies and respecting the glorious individuality each of them hold, curvy girls and toothpicks, alike. She spoke of demanding respect from boys. She spoke explicitly of what boys wanted from girls. And it's true. No matter how politically correct you want to be, boys are boys. They are hormonally driven to TRY AND GET SEX BY WHATEVER MEANS POSSIBLE. They can't help it and they never change, no matter the age. 
She spoke specifically of what to say to a boy when pressured, how to say it, when to say it. She spoke of honoring themselves and insisting on honor from the world around them. 
Today's world prepares children with information and available birth control and facts. Virtue and Respect are topics sadly ignored in the education of sexuality. But, Mary knew exactly what girls need to hear.
Mary retired a few years back and a new principal took charge. 
Things changed.
For me, the joy deflated. 
For me. 
I will not speak for anyone else and I will not bash our little school that I still am so proud of. 
My two big girls graduated from that little school. Thanks to the hands and hearts of that school, they were ready to soar into the world and soar they did. 
My little Julia was the last girl standing. 
I won't say much. What I will say is somewhere along the way, some of that old-school sensibility entered the halls of that little school. And the entire atmosphere gradually changed, like a hot-air balloon with a slow leak.
I did my best. I lowered my head and tried to be patient with rigid mandates and policies that didn't make much sense. I tried to stay positive as the climate turned into a tight-fisted, controlling place. 
I tried to pretend that it was still working for us. It was easier for me to do, since I had focused my life in another direction. I had steered my world away from the school and into my writing. My children were getting older. They needed me less and less. But, more importantly, I had discovered the part of me that I had left behind, far too long ago. I had opened my writer's notebook, again. And even with that, even though I had given of myself year after year after year to that school, there were still certain folks who chose to say unfair things to me about my choice to spend less time at school when I would show up for volunteer work. 
We still hung in there. It was our school and the teachers there were points of lights guiding our way, keeping my girls actively and eagerly involved in the process of learning.
I won't go into any more detail. It would do no good. It would only harm and I want to do this for the better. 
I will just say there has been a small voice in my head whispering questions now for some time. But, this was the only school Julia has ever known. She was soon to be the first graduating class that went all the way to the end. The full cycle of our lives there completed. Our little, safe world. The first girl to use the potty in the history of the school. Those are all big deals. 
The breaking point came the day Julia returned from Christmas break. Our Florida weather has been freezing. Julia's school uniform gives her a choice of a skirt, shorts, or a skort. Perfect Florida attire. Pants are offered, too, but my girls were never interested in pleated uniform pants that had not a bit of cuteness to them, not to mention they were pretty pricey for a few days of wear out of the school year. 
That first day back the temperature was in the 20's and I instructed Julia to wear a pair of thick woolen, blue tights with her skirt. As we pulled up to the car line, we saw the principal standing there in what I thought was a welcoming back gesture. 
Julia saw it otherwise. 
She began to panic, like nothing I've ever seen, breathlessly saying, "Mom, I'm not sure if I can wear tights to school. I'm not sure. I THINK I'M GOING TO BE IN TROUBLE! PLEASE, PLEASE TAKE ME HOME!"
I was astonished as I tried to calm her. It was cold outside. She needed to keep her legs warm. End of story. 
She didn't want to open the door, she was so frozen in fear. I finally convinced her I would let no one give her grief over her tights. 
And I will say, nothing was said. Her tights were an acceptable form of dress code.
But, as I pulled away, I had a flashback of my old-school years and the total panic I would have when my church beanie was missing. Girls who forgot their beanies on Mass day were forced to wear a humiliating paper hat that looked suspiciously like a dunce cap. 
She had that same sense of panic . . .  over tights. What was I doing to my girl?
I picked up my phone and made a phone call. And in that moment, Julia's world changed forever. 
My friend Debbie is a big gun in the public school system. She gets things done. She is a hard-working volunteer who has served her children's schools well and because of that, she is highly respected. I poured my heart out to her and it was as if she'd been waiting for me all along. She made phone calls. She made things happen. 
The destiny of my children's young lives rests in the palm of my hands. That, at times, has twisted my heart in two and given me some of the most agonizing moments of my life. This was no exception.
I want to do good by them. No— I want to do extraordinary by them. 
I don't know if I've made the right decision. But, this week, Julia begins again at a new school. 
She will be with Debbie's daughter, Haley: A girl who is more sister than friend; A girl she has known since birth; A girl who has been her constant companion, day in and day out on happy days and days of little-girl squabbling; A girl who I'm counting on to help my sweet Julia navigate this big world. 

I know it's not going to be easy. I know that middle school is a tough place, sometimes. Hormone surges tend to cause kids to be little assholes in the middle school years. And my Julia is as gentle and sweet as a baby deer. 
But, she is also strong and smart. And on the tour of her new, very impressive school, we learned that children are allowed to talk and laugh and chatter at lunch, instead of being required to eat in silence. We learned they have an Ag program with roosters and chickens and a greenhouse and a cow. Julia's favorite things—plants and animals. We learned that even though the place is a billion times bigger than the little school that has been her life, there will be smiling faces and helping hands ready to help her find her way. We learned that on cold days, you don't have to panic because you want to keep your legs warm and you don't have to worry about detention if your ankle socks aren't the required standard inches above your ankle. In fact, if you don't feel like wearing socks, you don't have to. The school chooses to focus on more important things than the length of your anklet. 
Today, I sorted through my infinite piles of unmatched socks. When I was through with my task, I called Julia into the room. I held out to her a big pile of socks, all uniform regulation, all a certain length, all standard white. I smiled as I said to her, "What do you say we toss these in the trash."
Her face lit up sunshiny and full of real joy. Oh, how I love joy on a child's face. 

We purged our life of those socks. Next on the list, shopping for some new clothes for this new life of ours. 
She and I, we can't wait for it to begin. 
Today's Magnificent Download: Arcade Fire's, "Wake Up." This is one of my most favorite songs of the last year, an absolutely glorious, glorious song. It was used in the trailer for "Where The Wild Things Are." And it fit perfectly. 
"Somethin filled up my heart with Nothin. Someone told me not to cry....Children wake up, hold your mistake up before they turn the summer into dust...With my lightnin'-bolts a-glowin', I can see where I am goin' to be....With my lightnin'-bolts a glowin', I can see where I am goin'. You'd better look out below!"
Shine on, my beautiful girl. I have a good feeling the days to come will be your best ones yet. And remember, you can go potty anywhere. A toilet's just a toilet. That's all I'm sayin'.

Maybe you've heard?
Trouble, oh, we got trouble, right here in River City. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool—pools with ice in them, that is.
We are FREEZING down here in the Land of the Tropics. 
I am really getting pissed off at this weather. I mean, seriously.


My plants are dead. The oranges and strawberry crops are barely hanging in there. There is ICE, ICE on the cars and the roads. People are almost dying because they're bringing their grills inside to warm up the house. And when the paramedics revive them and ask, "What were you thinking, bringing a grill in your house?" They're all, "Dude, I live in Florida. How was I supposed to know I couldn't heat up the house with a grill? We don't use heaters in Florida. I don't even own shoes!"
My dog is looking at me like, "Seriously, you expect me go out in THAT to pee? I think I can master your toilet if you hold my tail."
I had to teach my college girl how to use her car defroster, because she's never had frosty windows. 
My Facebook is full of Floridians bemoaning our frozen fate.
And I know, I know, the rest of you think we have no right to complain. You're all laughing at us, at our 20-degree weather, thinking, "Tropical bastards, whining about a little pansy-ass chill in the air."
But, it's just not right. You see, it's all relative.
It's kind of like the Chicago Marathon of 2007. The race was shut down early. One runner died. Over 400 people needed medical attention. My sister used to live in an apartment where the marathon course ran directly in front of her door. She said the road was strewn with passed out runners and ambulances and they didn't have enough help for everyone. 
All because of an 88-degree heatwave. 
Down here, we find 88 degrees refreshing— a little chilly even. 
I'm really hoping the talk is true about Hell—that it's burning hot. I can handle the heat. Not that I'm worried about going to Hell or anything. Well . . .  unless, God has a real problem with my constant stream of profanity as I drive down the road, harshly judging bad drivers and the fact that I am a married woman who covets, and I mean, COVETS Gerard Butler and Johnny Depp and of course, Bono. Cause, if that's the case, I'm bringing my bathing suit and mini-fan to my death bed.
I'm in my bed with 7 blankets on top of me and one of them is a thermal sleeping bag. 
I can't get this cold out of my bones. It pains me. I stay in the shower entirely too long, in water so hot it's barely tolerable. I'm hoping to boil my frozen insides. 
I find undressing to be something avoided at all costs. My knuckles and lips are chapped! We don't have to worry about chapped body parts here in the Tropics! And my feet. Oh, my poor little frozen feet! 
Apparently, I sent up a maelstrom of hate on this post here. I had no idea there was a barefoot community that advocated bare feet at all times. until they came after me because I drew the line at going barefooted in public restrooms and restaurants. I guess going without your shoes can really give you anger issues.
Well, they're really gonna be mad at me now. 
I'm wearing 2 pairs of fuzzy socks and my Ugg boots everywhere I go. My hubby said to me the other night as we tried to burrow under our layers of blankets, "Is that your boots?"
And I was all, "I don't need frostbite. You do know they amputate your toes when your feet get frostbitten. I like my toes. My toes are like my best feature." 
Which is kind of a shame, to have toes as your best feature. I'd definitely trade-off, let's say ugly toes for Heidi Klum's legs or Angelina Jolie's mouth or Halle Berry's . . . anything. 
And I know I'm sounding like a big, wussy whiner, but the thing is we are ill-equipped for this. 
We, Floridians have thin blood and a very low tolerance to any temperature under 70. We're certainly not hardy in the ways of the Eskimos. But, before you scoff, let me say, I've seen many a Northerner sweating buckets, practically passing out from heatstroke when we, tropical folk are still in our light sweater and jeans weather apparel.
And we certainly don't have the shelter or equipment for frigid temperatures. 
My house has stone floors and sliding glass doors everywhere you freakin' look. It's a house built for sunshiny days and humidity. It doesn't matter how high we put the heat, I'm still seeing my frosty breath in the air. My house is as well insulated as a peasant's hovel in the Middle Ages. And in fact, their peat roofs and dirt floors and stick walls were probably a tad bit cozier than my cold-ass house. 
And then there's all the protective gear we don't have. We have no mittens or long underwear or ski hats or turtlenecks. Heck, some of us don't even own a pair of long pants. 
But, how many Northerners can say they have a collection of sunscreens in every SPF number, approximately 200 mismatched water wings, about the same amount of flip-flops, (also unmatched), countless boogie boards, goggles, bathing suits in every size and color and most importantly, the Hummer of all coolers, one with SUV-like wheels built to glide through the sand so that the beer and bottles of wine don't get too jostled on their way down to the beach?
I have found only one plus to the ridiculous amount of layering that is required. My Chicago sister turned me on to this one. You can go braless to the store in your big heavy coat and no one will know the difference. 
Because, in warm weather, truuuussst me, when I tell you I would not be able to attempt that without children screaming and hiding behind their mothers.
Here's a True Story about our lack of winter apparel. A few years ago, we decided to take the girls up for a snow vacation during their Christmas break. 
My sister-in-law, the Bad Ass, has a winter getaway in Vermont. We landed in Boston, where we were  staying for a few days. The snow flurries were gently swooshing down from the sky as we retrieved our luggage. My kids were enthralled! They've seen very little snow in their lives. At the airport, they ran through the automatic door scooping up snow off the ground that was littered with cigarette butts and dirt. 
By the time we made it to our hotel, the snow was no longer gentle, soft flakes. The wind was whipping itself into a frenzy and the sky was dumping out snow by the tons. 
We had to take a cab to dinner, 2 blocks away, the weather was so fierce. 
When we made it back to the hotel, the snowdrifts were piling up, the wind was howling and the few people on the street were scurrying to get where they needed to be. 
But, not my crew. 
We ran across the street to a courtyard, the powdery, heavy snow calling our girls' names. We rolled giant blobs of snow and built snowmen. We lobbed snowballs at each other. We made angels in the snow as the passersby scurrying past, shot us curious glances. 
It was wonderful fun.
For the next few days, we didn't let the snow stop us, trekking around Boston in the frigid weather. We walked the Freedom Trail, brushing off the snow to read the plaques. We waded through cemeteries in thigh-high drifts. We strolled around Boston taking in the historic sights. We popped into a beautiful, Italian bakery to warm up with the help of piping, hot cocoa and crunchy biscotti. 

On our last night there, my littlest said her feet were hurting. We took a look and discovered her boots were not waterproof. I'd bought furry boots, the warmest ones I could find. There were no snow boots to be found in Florida. Her feet were like ice. We soon discovered the other two's boots had soaked through, too.

Since we were headed back to the hotel for the night anyway, I decided to buy some cheapo snow boots in Vermont the next day, knowing we'd never use them, again. The next time we'd see snow, their feet would be twice as large.
That was a bad decision, along with the one to grab a quick lunch on the road on the way up to Stowe. 
We drove for hours, only seeing trees and hills and snow . . .  lots and lots of snow. 
We kept driving thinking there had to be a McDonald's just around the river bend. 
Around 5:00, we were ready to settle for a gas station with chili dogs and big gulps. 
We felt like pioneers on a desolated trail in the wilderness. 
About 6:00, the kids were looking for errant goldfish crackers between the seats. 
A little while later, a gas station appeared on the side of the highway. We rejoiced as we hurried into the station, ready to hit the dispenser with some jumbo cups. 
The only thing the old gas man could offer us was cigarettes and Wrigley's gum . . . only the spearmint flavor. 
When my Hubby asked him where the closest food of any sort was, the old man told us there was a pizza place about 13 miles up the road. We jumped in the car and sped there. 
It was a mom and pop pizza place with a few pinball machines and a Wack-a-Mole. Vermont's version of Chuck E Cheese and the thing was, it stood there, stuck in the middle of nowhere with absolutely nothing around it. One lone bit of commercialism plopped down in the stark wilderness. 
With food in our bellies, we were fortified enough to hunt down some made in China snow boots. I was not about to pay one trillion dollars for snow boots my children would never wear again. And so we drove and drove and drove through town after town, looking for . . . 
A Walmart. 
It wasn't until we stopped a woman in one of these desolate, Vermont towns empty of discount stores and fast food restaurants did I realize my humongous mistake. 
We asked her where the closest Walmart was and she looked at us and laughed and said, "You're obviously not from Vermont."
Apparently, Vermont has a problem with Walmart and obviously McDonald's. 
And I say to that: Vermont, Get Right With The World!!!
I understand hating the big box. I hate them, too. I understand hating Big Macs and chicken that tastes like breaded rubber bands, but come on! Sometimes life requires you to need a gallon of milk, a rotisserie chicken, some motor oil, a birthday present, Preparation H and a 6-pack of Fruit of the Loom's all at the same time. 
And sometimes life requires a Big Mac.
It's just the way it is. 
I ended up paying a trillion dollars for snow boots we used for one week because Walmart seems to be illegal in Vermont, along with cheery people, Big Macs and fun things to do. 
Seriously. 
After a couple of days of sledding, a tad bit of skiing, (my sister's kids were far too young for skiing), my kids were all, "Ok, so what else can we do?"

Not that my kids need constant entertainment. They love long, nature walks, ambling through towns, and   just hanging out. But, it's hard to hang out when it's pitch black by 4:00 and your lips are frozen through your ski mask and all the Vermonters are cranky and Vermont doesn't have much to offer besides maple syrup.

And if you're from Vermont, I'm really, really sorry. But seriously, you guys could all use a pina colada and a few days at the beach and a trans fat burger from McDonald's. 
On Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge, it states that Vermont is one of the least populated states. I can see that. People are all, "They don't have a Walmart? Well, heck, I'm not living there!"
It also states that Vermont has a big problem with binge drinking. 
If I were Vermont, I'd be drunk, too. 
That's all I'm sayin'. Pray for us. Down here in the frozen tropics. Pray that our sunny days come back soon and we can get back to no coats, no shoes, and tank tops . . . of course, with our bras. Mine is pink, by the way. 
Today's Definite Download: The Boss's "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" Preferably the live version. 
There is nothing like that rousing song to get your blood pumping. It's Bruce at his concert best, which is pretty damn good. When he sings, "And the Big Man joined the band" and the crowd goes crazy, you just feel like you're right there, with Bruce and his hot, little ass. 
The only bad part is when that damn Patty Scalfia sings. Seriously. Did she make a pact with the devil or what? She can't sing. She is certainly not a looker. I think she pretends to play that guitar. Not only did she make it into the E Street Band, she stole Bruce away from his beautiful wife and got him to marry her and settle down and have a family, so he's stuck forever and ever. I just don't get it. Lucky bitch. 
"Well everybody better move over, that's all. Cause I'm running on the bad side and I got my back to the wall. Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out. Tenth-Avenue Freeze-Out."
Mother Nature, I'm about to kick your ass, like Bruce, if you don't warm things up around here pretty damn quick. I've got a bunch of aerosol hair sprays and I am NOT afraid to use them.

So, here's my new theory and maybe I'm wrong, maybe it's just my thankless household, but I feel like  Christmas is glorious and fun and just freakin spectacular for everyone but the Momma. 
Momma doesn't get the holidays off. Am I right?

It's why I'm cooking up a plan for next Christmas to go away. . .  far, far away.

Since no one had any interest in cleaning up the carcasses of empty boxes and shredded wrapping paper, there I was, alone, with my Hefty. The girls were all far too busy playing Wii Fit and trying on their new crap. And the Hubby was in the garage, his man shrine, doing . . . I have no idea what he does in there, getting away from the women-folk, is my suspicion. And I didn't want to sound like a shrieking shrew . . . well, at least on Christmas. And so, I finally gave up and cleaned up the house by my lonesome since the guests would be arriving sooner than I could say, "Come On, Crapheads! Clean up the Crapbucket! Merry Freakin' Christmas!" 

And speaking of crap:

Cute, right? It's a good thing, because these kids are poop machines. That's it. They eat, sleep, play and poop, poop, poop. 5 pooping machines. If they weren't this scrumptious, I'd have thrown them out long ago. 

And since their mom, Paris Hilton, isn't in to eating their poop anymore-- the only motherly thing she was doing for them-- it's up to me. Not, of course, eating it, just cleaning it up. 

I'm the mom, now. In the early dawn hours, when they're crying from their little penthouse the Hubby built, because they have to poop some more, Paris is there all snuggled up in the bed next to me with a look that says, "You're gettin' that, right?" And of course, I get up for an outside playtime and pre-dawn poop, while she stretches out onto my warm side of the bed.

I feel like one of those grandmas who ends up raising her daughter's kids, cause her daughter's all jacked up on meth, abandoning her kids with grandma for the meth. 

I don't think Paris is on meth . . . at least I'm not paying for any. She's just a crappy mom.

So, after I spent hours cleaning and picking up poop and laundering, laundering, laundering puppy towels and blankets, I started in on the dinner. Dinner and poop in the same sentence. It's my life nowadays.

The holidays are usually at my house. I'm not sure when I inherited the holiday dinners, but I've been the official holiday hostess for several years, now. It's one of the rare times I feel like a certified grown-up. There's something about cooking a turkey that just declares, "Hey, look at me! I'm cooking a turkey. I'm an adult!" 

But, here's the thing: I've never thought of myself as a good cook. 

I'm too intimidated by all the great cooks that surround me. My Hubby comes from a long line of Italian folk who have raised cooking and eating to an elegant, extraordinary art. They are people who hand-roll their pasta, know instinctively, thanks to their genes, how to perfectly season, how to whip up something from nothing, how to cook, really cook. My Hubby is just like his ancestors-- an amazing cook. It's hard to measure up to that. 

So, I do what I do and hope for passable. 

During the holidays, I take over the cooking and try my best with the help from some of my favorite food chefs. 

I think I do OK. I mean no one's ever died or vomited at the table or anything.

My menu looked delectable on paper.

We were having a perfectly, crispy skinned turkey and a ham from the Ham Store of the Long Lines. Thanks to my sister Jean, we had smashed potatoes made from the flavorful baby reds whipped up with some heavy cream and parmesano. 

We call it parmesano in our house in a really, obnoxious Italian accent, because The Hubby, our cook from the long line of Italians just like him, buys our parmesano from the Italian market where they hand grate it from the huge block as you stand there. So beautiful, that cheese. One of my kids came home one  night from dinner at a friend's with the amazing revelation, "Hey, they had the coolest thing! They had cheese in a green can!" My poor kids-they've been cheated out of cheese in a can. 

We had roasted butternut squash, Barefoot Contessa style. Like the Contessa, I love my veggies roasted. I love the nutty flavors that caramelizing brings out. BUT, what I love even more than roasted veggies, is pre-cut butternut squash. Oh, it is a joyful thing. Carving up cumbersome butternut squash is an odious task that creates quite a mess and takes up too much cooking time. This way your biggest labor is pulling off the plastic seal and prying open the lid. 

I tried a few new recipes, this year with nervous trepidation. I made a braised pear, stuffed with blue cheese, toasted pecans and cranberries in an apple cider, port and brown sugar sauce. I was a little leery about this one, since it sounded too labor-intensive and my right-hand girl, my sister Beth, stayed put in Chicago for Christmas. But, actually those gorgeous pears were about the easiest thing I did . . . except for opening the squash container.

                                                  Photo courtesy of St. Pete Times

I also did some roasted brussel sprouts mixed with pomegranate seeds. Now, if you're thinking, "Gross" trust me, you should try this one, Internet. Roasted Brussel sprouts have a nutty, almost popcorn-like taste to them. My Odawg the vegetarian, eats these things like they ARE popcorn.

                                               Photo courtesy of St. Pete Times


As I was whipping up my sprouts, I had every intention of using up my last pomegranate. My Julia had been eyeing up that delicate fruit all day. But, when it came time to carve up the pomegranate for its seeds, I thought about that scarlet juice that bleeds profusely and stains everything it touches. I thought about my Julia's little face as she eyed up that pomegranate, one of her favorite things in the whole world. I thought about my purty apron that would be forever marked in pomegranate juice. 

I gave Julia the fruit and I threw in some dried cranberries instead. The dish looked beautiful, so holidayish with it's green and red,  but I wasn't sure what people would think. Brussel Sprouts and Cranberries, not your average dish.

And then, there was my stuffing. 

My Hubby had asked me to change it up this year, add a little meat to the mix, since if it doesn't have meat, in his eyes, it's not worth opening your mouth for. 

I found a Giada De Laurentiis recipe filled with turkey sausage, (I changed mine to Italian pork) and bread, apples, onions, wine, olive oil, broth, parmesan cheese and jarred chestnuts, (In my neck of the woods, if you went to the market and asked for jarred chestnuts, they would frown at you with a quizzical stare, the same look you'd get if you were requesting roasted monkey poo. So I just substituted toasted walnuts) and yes--cranberries. 

I was at the grocery store, in the bakery, looking for some nice bread to use for stuffing, when I came across, wonder of all wonders . . . a one pound bag of toasted, pre-cut stuffing that the lovely bakery ladies had made up from some French baguettes. 

Merry Christmas to me! Amen! Amen!

I snatched that baby up and put it in my cart, mighty darn quick. 

Every woman in that store who spotted that bag in my cart, stopped to ask me where they could find such a heavenly thing. Even the lady manager who was bagging my groceries, said, "Oh My Gosh, we have this!" She summoned a bag boy to grab her a bag that very minute.

Pre-cut stuffing. That, my friends, is luxury. 

So, I made Giada's recipe, because Giada has never let me down. 

My mother-in-law doesn't trust Giada, since Giada's a double zero or whatever ridiculous petite size she is.

I think it's against the foodie rules or at least the rules of the Italian people, to be that tiny.

Although, my mother-in-law's one to talk. I'll never forget the first time I went to their house for a visit. I found her foodie savvy very intimidating. We were having hamburgers for lunch. And of course, they weren't like any burgers I was used to, the ones slathered in ketchup and mustard and maybe if you were getting fancy, some tomato. These were burgers accompanied with caramelized onions, portabella mushrooms sauteed in wine, applewood bacon and veiny blue cheese. At the last minute, she realized she didn't have any hamburger buns. I offered to go to the store to get out of her intimidating way, but she said with a dismissive wave of the hand, "No, don't be silly. I'll just make some."

Make the hamburger buns. 

And she did, punching up that dough, like it was nobody's business.

Because she is Italian, she's talking to you about dinner the very second you wake up in the morning. She has to, it's in her genes. She is all about the food, 24/7 and she's maybe a buck-ten, dripping wet. So, I don't think she has much room to talk about Giada. I think they both burn it off spending every second of their time in the kitchen, whipping up new treats.

So, back to my story.

I toiled and labored and was a nervous wreck over all the new dishes I was serving my guests. I also whined . . . quite a bit and I told my Hubby, under no circumstance, was I getting up after dinner to do dishes.

I hate that part.

Not the dish part, although I would so appreciate a good butler after eating a big meal with scores of people, but our American, puritanical habit of never being able to fully relax and snatching up the dishes the second the meal is done.

In Europe, they do it right. They do it right in so many ways in Europe, actually. The good food, good wine, the leisurely pace of life, the long vacations . . . but definitely not the foie gras.

There is nothing right about foie fras.

But, as for the meal, they linger afterwards, enjoying their wine, the company, the talk. I have often tried to convince folks after a meal to sit, sit and enjoy. But, somebody always starts picking up dishes and then everybody gets up and then I freakin get up, cause I feel so guilty. 

But, not this year. 

I am so utterly relieved to say my dinner was a phenomenal success. My new recipes were met with glowing reviews. Not just the, "That was a great meal." obligatory, kind of thing.

No.

The folks gushed and raved and went on and on about brussel sprouts mixed with cranberries and pears crammed full of yum and stuffing that was devoured--both pans of it. 

And I sat there, so thrilled that my bounty of offerings was being gushed over, that perhaps, for the first time in my life, my Hubby's little Italian Nana and all of his other foodie ancestors were looking down from the heavens above and saying, "Molto Bene, Little Mick Girl!"  

As they gushed, I ducked my head and felt exactly like I had won Top Chef. For the first time in my life I felt like a cook, a real bona-fide cook.

And the best part of it all, we lingered. We drank wine and laughed and picked at the leftovers and did it just like you're supposed to, of course, without the foie gras. 

It was a grand, wonderful Christmas.

That doesn't change things. I'm still going away next year. We'll linger over a restaurant table instead of mine. I'm not THAT excited about my successful meal. Please. 

If you're ever interested, here is Giada's stuffing. 

Easy-peasy stuffed pears and Brussel sprouts with pomegranate seeds or if you don't want to look for a couple of days like you stabbed someone to death, dried cranberries, can be found here.

Enjoy or as we Italian chefs say, Mangia!

Today's Definite Download: "The Reeling" by Passion Pit. I love these guys so much. They're funky, the sort of music to cook to. 

I am always proud of my music appreciation, when I, the old lady, turn my teens onto some new music. My Odawg girl was not familiar with them when I mentioned them to her. Now I hear the chords of their songs drifting down from her upstairs dung room. 

She leaves today. I will miss the pounding beat coming from above. I will miss the mess. I will miss my bathroom light flicking on at 3:00 am as she looks for a nail polish or a mud mask or whatever she does during her vampire hours. I will miss my beautiful brown-eyed girl.

Before I get into my post, I need to make a true confession, Internet. 
One of the resolutions I left off of this here list, was my vow to eat better breakfasts. Usually I skip the most important meal of the day, which is not good on so many levels. 
I've been true to my resolution, eating my Irish oatmeals and real granola that tastes like horse feed and adding an orange or tangerine since our lovely Florida fruits are in season right now. 
And then this morning, I came home from my morning school route to this, sitting on my counter:
See, my oldest dung beetle is still home from college and she has not yet learned the fine art of picking up after herself. And since she keeps the hours of a vampire, I find her snacks greeting me in the morning.




I popped a few crunchy chips in my mouth and decided they were just missing a little something and so I combined them with this:
The combination of salty and sweet, it is my Nirvana.



Next thing I knew, I was cramming my mouth full of tostitos and chocolate almonds and all bets and resolutions were off. But, the chocolate WAS dark and the chips WERE whole grain, so that counts for something...right?
And as I was crunching down, I thought, "Well, at least, I got something accomplished this morning. Only 6 days in and now I won't have to worry anymore about breaking my resolution!" 
So, there's that. Now, on to the holiday.
Christmas rocked.
We had a lovely Christmas. The girls were all glammed up good with their girly-girl accoutrements. 
And I'm really not going to disclose what I got my Hubby. I'll just tell you it's a big addition to his Rambo collection.  
There he is with his macho gun stroller.



I was gifted with a Pilates reformer which resembles a medieval torture contraption...actually, it might as well be classified in the same category. And I don't mind a little rack torture, as long as it gives me a body like Gwyneth Paltrow.
                                                Photo courtesy of Egotastic



The Hubby also bought me some sunglasses....the expensive kind. 
This is going to bring major stress into my life. I can feel it, every time I glance at those shades. 
The fanciest sunglasses I wear are Target designer, the $14.99 ones. And even then, I balk at the price. I'm not sure if I'm up to the responsibility of owning a pair of swaggy shades. It's kind of like fancy pens. I'd definitely lose a fancy pen, most likely on the first day in. So, just so you know, don't anyone every buy me a fancy pen. I'm not a fancy pen kind of girl. It's just too stressful... keeping track of pens and sunglasses.
I also got some pretty clothes and accessories and I thought it was just a swell Christmas. I couldn't ask for anything more, until I opened a box and found this inside....
That's right. A Bono purse. Try not to be too jeaaaalouss.



My sisters knew as soon as they saw it in a little Chicago boutique, that this could quite possibly be the best gift of all time. It even has pictures of him plastered all over the inside of the purse, so now I can gaze at him while I'm rooting around for my hand sanitizer or a pen, but not a fancy one, or my swaggy sunglasses that I've promised my hubby I'd keep in their microfiber little satchel. Errr... at least I'll try.
My girls say they're not going to be seen about town with me and my Bono purse. And I say to them, well get used to being motherless and without the benefit of my credit cards, because I'm taking this bad boy with me EVERYWHERE.
In fact, right after Christmas we went and saw my sister's celebrity boyfriend's new movie. For those of you not in the know, that would be George Clooney's, "Up In The Air."
I'm sad I didn't think of a George Clooney purse for her.
Now I have to say, initially, along with the bazillion other people who thought it would be nifty to see that show the-day-after-Christmas-at-my-hometown-theater-for-the-7:20-showing, I didn't love it too much. 
But, then the film scholar, Odawg, lectured her father and I about how America loves their cliched endings and we had to get beyond being all happily ever after and really feel the movie. 
And I think I'm feeling it...I guess...Well, maybe a little. 
The critics loved it. But, then again, the critics loved that movie where Hilary Swank is a boxer and she's punched her way up to champion, but then she gets hit from behind with a dirty punch and becomes paralyzed. And her white-trash family hates her and only wants to use her for her money. And when she realizes she's alone in the world with just Clint Eastwood, her trainer, as her only friend, she does what anyone would do. Duh. She asks Clint Eastwood to kill her. And when he refuses, she tries to bite her tongue off so that she'll bleed to death. And when that doesn't work, Clint Eastwood decides to be a good friend, I guess, and he kills her. End of story.
I'm thinking I don't mind cliches. 
Of course, I proudly dangled my Bono purse from my wrist during my venture out. That purse was the best part of the movie escapade. That and the popcorn mixed with Raisinets and if you haven't had that combo, I must suggest it. I will humbly tell you that every person I've turned onto this salty/sweet combo only does the movies now with my mixture.
While in the lobby of the movie theater, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and there stood a guy I've known since I was about 9. This guy and I went to school together. He played softball every year on my brothers' team. My dad was his father's campaign manager when his dad ran for political office. So, we know things about each other. 
For instance, he knows I successfully stuffed a whole pack of red hots into my mouth at once and kept them there for like a minute. (A dare from my sister while whiling away our time at the ball park.)
And I know that he was pretty good at surf-riding on the roof of one of our friend's Firebirds in the Pizza Inn Parking Lot after the high school football games and a few beers. 
You know, intimate things.
Aways back, the most bizarre thing happened. My Firebird-surfing buddy ran for a certain political office, a very powerful political office and won. And then, a few years after that, he got an even more powerful position in the halls of the government. He was a Super-Duper Big Cheese in the land of politics. 
The first few years after he became a Big Cheese, he was still the same guy I've known all my life whenever I ran into him. But then, somewhere along the way, he started using this politician voice, (the all generic, "I'm pretending to be deeply interested in what you're saying, but I'm really thinking about how much I like pistachios" voice) and being all super-polite to me and I just wanted to punch him in the gut, you know, just to get a reaction and say, "Dude, quit with the Eddie Haskell routine. I'm the red-hot-  stuffing-her-face girl. You're the Firebird Surfer. So. Stop. It. Now."
I saw him a few weeks before Christmas and he gave me that voice and he was so kindly polite. I will admit, it kinda bugged me. But since I have a very busy and important life myself, cleaning up puppy poo and whatnot, I forgot about it. 
When I turned around at the movie, he immediately started in with his affable, "How are you?" 
So kindly polite, when I knew he was saying inside his head, "I need to get in that concession stand line before it gets any longer, so I can nab me one of those gourmet pretzels with the dunking cheese."
We engaged in polite, earnest, "I'm pretending to care but I'm thinking about Little Debbie Ho-Ho's" small talk... that is, until I saw it. I watched his gaze settle onto my Bono purse and for an instant, there was this flash of alarm, of eyebrows raised, of certain, "Red Hot Girl has lost her shit" before he regained his political, polite composure. 
A little rewind for a moment here: My high school class is really great about having reunions every five years. A few years back, we had a terrific one at a posh golf and tennis resort. One night, after more than a few cocktails, my hubby decided to carjack borrow a golf cart for the night--easier to traipse our way through the resort to all the various room parties without spilling our cocktails. As a gang of us climbed aboard, my Super Big Cheese Buddy decided to relive a few high school memories. 
Back to the present: As soon as my Big Cheese Buddy regained control, his kind smile back in place after he spotted my Bono purse, I wanted to hiss, "SAY IT!! Come on!! Taunt me! You know you want to!" 
But, mostly I wanted to declare, "Yes! That's right! It's a Bono Purse. And if we're judging, let me just state for the record, that I know who I am. I am a Bono-accessorising, red-hot-stuffing, cheap-pen-carrying, stressed out sunglass wearer! And I am proud, proud, I say! Might want to think about that, Mr. surfing the roof of the stolen golf cart with cocktail in hand and you know you're dying to bust a gut and wrench my purse away from me and say, 'What the f*#@k is this?' Do you know who YOU are? Mr. Now Polite As Eddie Freakin' Haskell Politician." 
That's what I wanted to say. 
Instead, I gave him one final hug and said, "Have a Happy New Year."
Maybe at the next reunion, I'll hit him upside the head with my Bono purse and force the real words out of him, "Girl, you're a freakin-ass freakazoid!" 
Popeye said it best, "I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam." 
As we walked away my Tori whispered, "Mom, he was so staring at your Bono purse. You are super embarrassing."
I smiled as I said, "I do try. So, thank you for that."
Today's Definite Download: The magnificent ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down." Man, weren't they something? 
I was shocked a few years back when someone informed me that it was NOT, "Don't bring me down, Brrruuuccce." But, "Don't bring me down, grrrosss."
 I was like, seriously? 
I've been singing Bruce with the trill in my r, for all these years. I had no idea who Bruce was, but it seems to make as much sense as gross? Who is gross? Or is it the bringing down part that's gross? Or are they talking the gross amount of something? 
I think I liked it better when it was Bruce. 
"What happened to the girl I used to known. You let your mind out somewhere down the road."
That's right. And I am proud of THAT. Have you seen my Bono purse?