Karen and Cass

Jack Sprat could eat no fat.  His wife could eat no lean…I can’t stop singing sad songs, where do I go from here?

Sometimes when I’ve had a stressful day, I eat double stuffed oreos, drink wine and sing along with the women I’ve come to regard as my support group.

Today was a stressful day.  So I searched for my favorite comfort song, which  led me to Olivia Newton John, which led me to Karen Carpenter.

I love Karen Carpenter’s voice most of all.  It’s my favorite singing voice of all time.  Always has been.  It’s like having an older sister or a guardian angel nearby.   

“To set things right when the world’s upside down.  Let me be the one you run to.  Let me be the one you come to when you need someone to turn to.”

And as always, I wondered…”what happened to her?”  How could a woman who had the most beautiful voice in the world, was loved by continents of people, not to mention her family, who was bright and beautiful, how could SHE think she couldn’t be loved unless she was as thin as skin on bones?

“You’ve got to love me for what I am for simply being me.  Don’t love me for what you intend or hope that I will be.”

My heart still goes out to her.  I know what it feels like to feel fat and unattractive, to want to be loved for who you are absolutely.  But it seems so crazy for her to think that about herself.  I’m sure she wouldn’t understand why I think so…but perhaps it’s just as crazy for me to think these things.

Suddenly, I find myself ear to voice with Cass Elliot.  Gorgeous.  Another of my absolute, all-time favorites.  And the epitome of the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to tragedy.  She joked alot about being overweight, even told her friends she didn’t want to be seen in public with them because it would only make it clear how big she truly was.

“Different is hard.  Different is lonely.  Different is trouble.  Different is heartache.  Different is pain.  But I’d rather be different then be the same.”

Again, I know what it’s like to feel self-conscious and worry about comparisons, but how silly of such a vivacious personality, a voice like a goddess, a true superstar.  It makes me wonder.

I’ve studied the power of beauty, the science of beauty, the history of beauty.  I’ve studied the science of weight disorders and weight loss, the psychology of it, the factors.  I’ve worked out, run, walked, dieted, starved myself, made myself throw up, hated food, used food as a crutch, ate the same food every day for months on end until I couldn’t stand it anymore.  And guess what, I’m within 30 pounds of where I’ve been my entire adult life.

“We go on hurting each other.  Making each other cry, hurting each other.  Without ever knowing why.”

Would it shock you to know that despite the fact I’m still overweight my doctor says I’m in fabulous health, fabulous shape?  It’s true.

But I’m not thin.

I have no intention of ever returning to the world of dieting or filling my time with activities I hate or eating only one food till the end of time just to be thin.  Nor do I plan to lead a sedentary life.  But I’m never going to be thin.

So when will it be okay for all of us…women, especially…to understand how gorgeous and worthwhile and wonderful we are…just as we are.  Like Karen and Cass.  Regardless of our shape.  Or our age.  Or our hair or skin or eye color.  Or weight.

“On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.  So they sprinkled moondust in your hair and golden starlight in your eyes of blue.”

I just want to live and live well, to sing and dance and be happy and enjoy every moment I’m here.

“It’s not hard to see that it isn’t half of what it’s going to turn out to be cause it’s getting better, growing stronger, warmer and wilder.  Getting better everyday.”

By the way, they both died of heart attacks.  I find that ironic as I sit here missing them…and their gorgeous voices.

“Don’t worry if it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear.  Just sing.  Sing a song.”

End state or state in waiting?

As is always true in my life, one message of note becomes many messages of note. I like to think it’s because the Fates and Muses want to make sure I’m paying attention.  But sometimes it just pisses me off, quite frankly.

Lately I’ve been inundated with messages about being single.  Haven’t I addressed this already?  Truthfully, I’ve been happily single for quite a while now.  True, I have my crushes and my flirtations every now and again, but at the end of the day, I look forward to cooking in the kitchen with my daughters, sharing a meal with them and laughing, walking the dog in the darkness and then sinking into solitude and silence for several hours.

I’ve hired a handyman who works miracles with my electricity and woodworking and horse-hair plaster and garden gates when I need him too.  And with Theo around, I no longer worry about strange noises at night—he ALWAYS checks them out for me.

But still I hear messages whispered around me, articles in magazines, news programs and even health tips about how important it is to be married…or at least in a committed relationship.

Then my daughter went away on a retreat.  ”What did you learn Kate?”

“Oh, they talked to us about girl stuff, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“Like being married.   And being single.”

“What did they tell you about being married?”

“All sorts of things about compromise and communication and how important it is for your health and well-being.”

“What did they tell you about being single?”

“Well…that you wouldn’t have someone around to tell you what to do…until you found someone, I guess.”

Now, I ask you Gentle Penguin…REALLY?

I can tell you for certain, my clients tell me what to do.  My daughters tell me what to do.  My parents tell me what to do.  Heck, Theo the dog tells me what to do sometimes.  Doesn’t mean I do what they tell me to.  But this doesn’t define my singleness any more than it defines someone being in a relationship.

What defines my singleness and sets me apart from people in relationships, quite honestly, is my one-ness.  ”Solo a Mia,” my Italian friends call me still (“just me”).  ”Einzigen,” is my nickname in Germany (“single one”).  ”Darlin’ ina n-aonar,” per Shrek (“darling alone”).

Of course, to be clear, I’m not sitting alone moping or pining for anyone.  Nor am I trolling the bars or the internet dating sites.  I don’t toss pennies in wishing wells hoping for the one I love to find me (to find me) today (or tomorrow).  I spend my time quite happily hiking, and writing, and painting, and dancing, and singing, and cooking, and gardening, and hanging laundry on the line, and taking photos, and reading, and living.

Why does this mean I’m not whole?  Why do people assume this means I’m waiting for one more?  Why can’t I be enough?  As one.

Does being single mean you must always be in a state of looking, waiting, anticipating?  Can’t being single mean you’ve found someTHING to which you’ve dedicated yourself and on which you’re focused?  Can’t being single mean living without the burden of always trying to find someONE?

Can’t being single be an end state?  Or must it always be a state in waiting?

Dance as sport

I promised I wouldn’t waste any more time trying to love running, but instead dedicate my exercise to something I love.  Dancing.  And because I sometimes have difficulty keeping my resolves and motivation, I decided to explore dance from a new angle.

Mainly a competitive one.

Those of you who know me in person know I love a good competition.  It’s not that I’m overly competitive in the sense of I have to win, but I want to know I gave it everything I’ve got and be proud of where I end up.  I knew I would never win a 5k before I ever signed up, but I wasn’t going to let the 80-year-old speedwalking women beat me after I’d been training for months!

Likewise, I don’t have any illusions I’m going to win my first competition, but I’ve been dancing for seven years now, and I want to know—I mean REALLY know whether I’m a good dancer or not.  Sure my teachers and the studio staff tell me I’m good, but they make a living on my choosing to return to the studio.  And I have a tendency to distrust the opinions of people with money involved.  (Just like I doubt the true intentions of the bartenders with whom I love a good flirt because I tip above the 10-13 percent that has become the average tip for service…I have thoughts on that too though…)

So I’ve agreed to sign up for my very first ever official competition.

Yes, I’ve danced exhibitions and performances a plenty, but this means I’m going to get a score, and be judged by people I’ve never met before on how well I dance compared to other dancers in my age category–well, those competing in Waltz, Foxtrot, Tango, Viennese Waltz, Rumba, Samba, East Coast Swing, Hustle, Cha Cha, and Mambo.

I have about a month left to prepare, but it’s caught me off guard lately to notice a remarkable shift in my dancing.  True, I’ve buckled down and really put some serious energy and time into it, but while I’m stretching and sweating and learning technique and routines, I’ve suddenly noticed I have no fear of the mirror.  I have no worries about what to do with my arms (except once when I almost clocked Justin—whose real name is Keith, a regular reader of my blog, one of the best people I know, who said it is quite alright to use his real name—with my elbow in a rapid turning sequence). I’m laughing a ton, flirting with the other students and even secretly hoping others are watching.

My feet match up when I step in Waltz and cross at the appropriate moments when we Viennese without my having to consciously make that happen.  My head turns out toward my elbow and down my extended leg when in Tango I corte without assistance from my mind.  And my butt pops out nicely in Betty Boop fashion when doing the travelling box step in Samba without my worrying about who’s behind me (last night I even hoped one gent WAS watching!)

Dance has become less of a study and more of a movement.

FINALLY!!!

And it’s infiltrated my life.  I come home and put on Ballet videos so I can stretch.  I feel taller and when I stand in line, no longer worrying about my posture, I can feel my feet firmly rooting into the ground as my frame aligns almost easily over my hips…ribs knitted, pelvis tipped, back straight, shoulders down and back, head pulled high.

It’s done interesting things for my stature too, in ways more than appearance.  At the end of a lesson in Viennese Waltz, my arms ached so badly for days, I considered typing on my keyboard with a pencil in my mouth. At the end of a Samba lesson, I discovered there were muscles on the sides of my hips (whew! I thought that was all fat and cushion) and boy were they hot and cranky for about a week.  At the end of a Rumba lesson, I finally understood what it meant to roll through your entire foot and how that helps slow down and distinguish the motions though my calf muscles are still not speaking to me.

I’ve even started turning my garage into a little dance studio so I have more room to practice turns and my routines.

And can I just divert for one minute to say I don’t think I want to buy my clothes anywhere but the dance store any more.  Dancewear is the most comfortable, moveable, flattering stuff I’ve ever draped over my body!

Only when Keith tells me about bowing do I begin to get nervous.  Why?  Because then I’m finished dancing and just waiting for judgement.

Okay, it doesn’t hurt that the competition is in NYC, that we’re travelling together as a large group, seeing Wicked on Broadway and having hair and makeup done professionally by a man who does so for some of the best dancers in the world, not to mention being in NYC with a great group of people with whom I’ve shared so much personal space on the dance floor here in Dayton.

But at the end of February, when I stand on that stage with unknown number of other couples and my name is announced, I intend to be just as serious and fierce and warriorlike as ever…just in a fun and flirtatious way.

In the kitchen

My daughters and I have spent so much time in the kitchen of late.  I wonder why we never did this before.

Tonight we’re making knefflies.  It’s a German food like a cross between a spaetzle and a dumpling and drowned in butter…not margarine…butter.  Butter!

I first fell in love with knefflies as a child when my mom made them for me from a recipe from her mom who fed them to her as a child.  ”It’s a German food,” I’d always been told.  And while I’ve never seen them in Germany (yet), I’m game to keep going back to try.

Tonight, I’m teaching my youngest—Meg—how to make this noodly side dish.

We put the thick-cut, organic pork chops from the farm up the road into a simmering stock (they had been browned the night before).  Then we filled the large pot with water and began the boiling process.

Out came the flour and the measuring cups and eggs and salt…and butter.  REAL butter made by a grass-fed cow farm within 20 miles of my house.  I’ve never thought I could eat just butter (though Meg assures me she’s thought of it lots and is convinced she absolutely could), I contemplate it now.

Mixing ensued.  Then came the kneading.  Oh, I love kneading!  It’s why I make homemade bread every weekend.  Well, that and I truly take great delight in seeing the dough come to life as it rises, gets punched down, then rises again.

Life seems somehow better, simpler, clearer when your sleeves are rolled up  and your fingers are covered in bits of flour and water and egg pushing a lump of dough around on a lightly floured counter.  Once the ingredients were mixed together into a ball of smooth elasticity, we head for the boiling pot of salted water.

Pinch by pinch the dough goes into the water, sinking to the bottom of the pot.  Oblong pinches, round pinches, long pinches, fat pinches, the more character the knefffly has, the better!  Our fingers are getting stickier and stickier.  The dough, a little more pliable and gooey as we pinch more and more morsels into the bubbling pot.

Slowly they start rising and gathering on top where the water and steam meet.  A foam is forming around them, the bubbling is so fierce. Are there knefflies hiding in that foam? For certain!

We wait until the pot is full of floating mounds of dough before scooping them with the metal colander into a glass pot where a full stick of butter waits to transform into a liquid cream that thus transforms the steaming lumps of part-noodle-part-dumpling dough into delectable morsels of heavenly goodness.

I’d sneak a bite, but my tongue is already burnt from testing the pork gravy and my hands are far too messy from the dough.  Still, I contemplate it while my oldest daughter hands me a glass of white wine saying “you can wipe off the glass easy enough.”

Meg is stirring the second round to make sure they don’t stick to the bottom, or each other.  ”Do we have to eat the pork and green beans?  Can’t we just eat knefflies?” she asks hopefully.  She’s not a fan of most green vegetables, unfortunately, but GOSH! they smell divine!  They smell like summer and grass and freshness all wrapped up in one.  I test those instead of the knefflies.

Meg shakes her head at me ruefully and asks if she should begin setting the table.   My daughters often fight about who’s going to set the table.  I admit, I like to do so myself.  There’s just something wonderful about eyeing the food—shape, texture, color and ethnic origin and matching it with our collection of mismatched fine china to determine which plates would best display the food.  It’s an art form all in its own right.

The same with glasses based on whatever they’re drinking.  I admit, Gentle Penguin, it was a little odd to watch them drink milk from stemmed water tumblers once, but tonight they opt for glass steins from various German festivals filled to the brim with our homemade iced tea.

Only the napkins remain a battle.

Cloth only!  ”There’s no use wasting paper on napkins when cloth napkins are far more functional, protective and useful…not to mention ecologically and economically sound,” I say exasperated.

Paper napkins!  ”Who cares about ‘-ically’ stuff,’” shouts my youngest with a wild and dramatic flourish of her hands.  ”Paper napkins clean up spills and are healthier,”

I doubt that, but we settle on cloth napkins easily as they size up the argument and acquiesce.

It’s time to settle in for a heaping portion of knefflies in melted butter.  And pork with pork gravy (a little lumpy as I realize too late you can’t stir in the flour mixture with a wooden spoon).

I don’t know if it’s the food—certainly it was heavenly!—But the easy laughter, the dim lights of the candles, the design of fine china, glasses, food textures and colors and the smells mixed with news of what matters to my daughters, what they think about, what they’re up to and what they have on their minds make the experience the perfect way to wrap up my day.  I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.

Form for Function

Dear Gentle Penguin,

I hate running.  Truly hate it.  But I like being healthy, so I try.  And I try.  And I try.  Recently, my daughters and I ran our third 5k, and while I loved pushing myself, sharing the experience with my daughters and finishing, I still hated the running part.

As I thanked my sister for her support with the event, for my girls and for me, I told her I hoped to love running someday the way she does.  (Truth be told, I figured I’d love it by now…three years into trying.)

Gentle Penguin, if you don’t believe in the power of words, you won’t understand how I felt when my sister responded:  ”You don’t have to love running.”

Great!  Because I hate it.  Those simple words lifted immeasurable weights off my mind and shoulders.

Later that week, I thought about this dilemma as I drove to a client’s office in Cincinnati, half listening to the story of Scott Summit’s drive to start a prosthetics company.  ”Too often we settle for function, sacrificing form. I say ‘that’s crap!’ … I wanted people to stare at these prosthetics…for the right reasons…because they’re beautiful!”

I don’t know why, but that stuck with me all day and night and throughout the following week.  I thought about it in relation to my invoices, my clothes, my home.  But it wasn’t until nearly three weeks later that I thought about it in relation to the function of running.

Did I mention that I hate running?  I hate it.

But that night after the 5k, after my sister told me I didn’t have to love running, I did something I love.  Something so full of beauty that I didn’t even register it as function.  That was the night I dressed up in my best ball gown, pulled on my gloves and dance shoes and spent the evening Waltzing, Fox Trotting, Cha-Cha-ing, Hustling, Tangoing, and Sambaing.  By the end of the evening, my heart was racing, and I was as sweaty as I had been that morning after the run.  In addition, my pedometer said I took more than 20,000 steps at the dance alone.

I love dancing.

Oh Gentle Penguin, dancing is so beautiful, so fulfilling AND full of function.  Stretching my arms, my shoulders, my legs.  Moving back and forth across the dance floor.  Balancing and spinning, pushing and pulling, reaching and bending.

After I heard Scott’s story, I vowed to never again sacrifice form, to question anything that asks me to.

And so, I have decided in 2012, the Year of Reduction, I am giving up on running.  You can find me on the dance floor.

Winter Solstice

The Winter Solstice—the longest night of the year—is tonight. To be precise, the solstice occurs at half past midnight in my beloved city.

I don’t know why, but I feel like I should mark the occasion. Maybe light some candles. Or toast the return of the sun with some champagne. Or crawl into bed early and reread Carl Sagan’s Cosmos or the Farmers Almanac. I choose all three: candles, champagne and extended bedtime reading.

But I can’t concentrate on either of the books. I keep staring at the fake starry sky projected on my ceiling while reflecting on the significance of this seemingly insignificant milestone of the winter solstice.

Since the summer solstice, we have been moving away from the sun with shortening daylight. This in turn has caused our trees to change color spectacularly until there is nothing left but barren branches. The birds have flown south leaving my mornings nearly silent instead of the full orchestral chorus I enjoyed previously. And the deep-seated need to nest has kicked in fully for me and my daughters.

Out come the blankets and reading lights. Our oven is running almost nightly turning out homemade bread, roasted turkeys or hams, cookies and even a squash or two or four. Our dinner table has become once again the hub of our family life where dinners are hosted, where homework or puzzles are completed, and where the sewing machine finds new life.

Perhaps that’s appropriate. Afterall, the solstice officially marks a new beginning. As far back as our anthropology can understand, the winter solstice was a major milestone of the year, marking the last big feast of the harvest in preparation for the cold months ahead, as well as the festival of the lights, as people celebrated the sun’s return.

I don’t know why, but it all feels so very romantic. Granted maybe it has more to do with my once reading a book where everyone was destined to fall in love at the solstice, though, come to think about it, perhaps it was the summer solstice when everyone fell in love.

Don’t get me wrong, Gentle Penguin, I have no aspirations that I will find myself in the midst of a romantic love affair this winter, let alone tonight. But, between the soft twinkle of my Christmas tree, the warmth and weight of blankets piled high on my lap and visions of the unending cycle of life dancing in my head, perhaps there is more to romance than simply mixing fairy tales with liverwurst and buttermilk.

Christmas Miracles

Sankt Nikolaus came early the evening of December 5th at my house. My day had been extra long at work and to top it off, another client had called with an “emergency” that needed attention before I could call it a day. I was working hard to mitigate my exhausted frustrated mood when I opened the door and saw dinner sitting on the candlelit table. My girls, pink cheeked with excitement danced around me as I put down my bag and peeled off my coat.

“Come on mom, we want to show you something!”

I sighed, thinking about how messy the kitchen probably was. But the thought was completely lost as I rounded the corner into the living room and there, standing tall and beautiful in the corner was the Christmas tree, dimly lit and fully decorated. It felt like a Christmas miracle.

“The other strand of lights burnt out when we were trying to hang them,” said Kate a little apologetically. I didn’t care, I nearly wept with joy and hugged my girls close the rest of the night, promising to get a new strand soon so the tree would look more alive.

Unfortunately, the tree stayed dimly lit as we sprinted from event to event to school and work, to choir practice and a 5k (our second of the year), to philharmonic concerts and the ballet, to dances and gift shopping. Slowly the joy I felt began to turn to guilt.

When was the last time my daughters experienced the truly breathtaking, dizzying joy of twinkling lights in the darkness and a higher percentage of waltzes on the stereo (it’s truly amazing how many Christmas waltzes there are!)? It’s why I’ve always thought this time of year was the most romantic.

When was the last time I’d built up the Christmas anticipation that makes the heart beat fast and the pulse race? Or sang raucous Christmas songs while driving down darkening roads looking at inflated decorations?

Had I become a scrooge? In the rush of living, had I left something behind? Or had I somehow lost my Christmas spirit? Or perhaps just romance.

It’s true, I no longer felt the urge to snuggle with a someone—or a cup of tea—and watch Rosemary Clooney fall in and out of love with Bing Crosby. I no longer warmed when Judy Garland breathlessly crooned “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” or Karen Carpenter sang “Merry Christmas, Darling.” And I no longer longed to waltz with someone intelligent, compassionate, and well-behaved (not to mention employed without any mental illnesses).

Instead, I felt compelled to stay busy building a new 10-year business plan, scheduling client meetings and spending what remaining free time I had walking all over my beloved city, my neighborhood and all the surrounding woods with Theo Barnes n Noble.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I worked a significant part of my waking hours. But I didn’t think it was a problem until I found myself creating math logic and pie charts to figure out how much time I was spending on each of my four life forces: body, mind, spirit and heart. Suffice it to say, it was overwhelmingly “mind” oriented with a fair dash of “body” thrown in thanks to Theo and dance.

Then another miracle occurred. I had a no-kids weekend without ANY commitments. How could that be, smack-dab in the middle of December? Wait! don’t question it, just embrace.

I stopped off at several stores on my way home Friday night and picked up a little bit of this and a little bit of that, determined to weave some Christmas magic at the house before my daughters returned on Sunday.

Then, silently, I slipped into solitude and soaked in it for days.

I reconnected with my oven, my laundry line, my yard, my house, my home. It felt wonderful. The more I connected with my haven, the more I felt myself starting to relax. I started humming along. And soon, I was belting out “Beautiful City” with the New Christy Minstrels while wishing I had a tambourine so I could play along.

I printed out photos of our Thanksgiving trip to New York City last year and replaced the photos in the collage frames hanging on my wall. I hung fake icicles and more ornaments and garland. I put up a real tree on the porch and decorated it with handmade yarn ornaments and strung popcorn and cranberries. Then, I turned out all the main lights and squinted at the twinkle lights around me.

Yes, it looked like heaven.

“If I had my way this Christmas. If all I would wish could be. Of all the great wishes in a wonderful world, I’d only ask for three…”

There it was, one of the most beautiful Christmas waltzes. And suddenly, I longed to share it with someone kind, upstanding and cultured. I hoped that meant my daughters would approve the touches I added to their Christmas miracle so it would be miraculous for them too.

Dressed Up with Somewhere to Go

As my single status continues on and on, I find less and less reason to get dressed up.  So, for Christmas, I decided that’s exactly what I was getting myself.

Tickets to a big band Christmas concert, an Air Force ball with a friend, the Philharmonic, the opera, and the big dance end-of-year showcase.

There’s something about knowing in a couple hours you’re going to look your absolute best, wearing something extra special and needing extra time to prepare yourself for it.  The basic act of cleaning and grooming takes on new anticipation and excitement.  The mere act of slipping into a slip, a glittering necklace or earrings, a bespeckled ball gown, and high-heeled shoes becomes a magical transaction.

Then, because I can, I pull out the vintage white velvet gloves with beading up the sides and around the elbows.  I lay them neatly next to my purse and keys as if they were fragile, then smooth out any wrinkles so they’ll be perfect when I put them on.

I toil for days wondering whether to wear my hair straight or curled and change at the last minute causing me to panic a little because once the decision’s made, there’s no going back without lots of rework.

Same for makeup.  Natural would be so much more dramatic with all the beading and sparkle I’m wearing, but maybe I haven’t given smokey eyes enough thought…or maybe I’m just lingering over the preparation.

Finally, a spritz of my special perfume.  The one that only comes out on special occasions.  I feel more powerful and beautiful than Cinderella could have felt on the way to her own ball.

If only I had a mink stole, I would be truly as royal as I felt.

The musicians are warming up, a gentleman waits for me, and the time as come.  Descending the staircase like Audrey after she returns from her Roman Holiday, I head out into the night.  Ready to reflect the light of the recently full moon in all directions as I’m finally dressed up with somewhere to go.

The Knife

There was lots of emphasis on food recently in my family, as I’m sure there was in yours.  So it came as quite a surprise when my dad, nonchalantly, told me that perhaps part of my difficulty with cooking was lack of proper equipment.  I scoffed at him then thinking of the $300 I was saving by not buying a mixer (and wondering what difficulty he was referring to!!!).  I mix by hand.  And wooden spoon.  And elbow grease.  It’s my Sunday workout, and I feel good reconnecting with the batter or dough that way.  (Kneading is one of my all-time favorite cooking past-times.)

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders saying “I’m talking about something much more basic than that.”

At the time I thought he might have been referring to my rolling pin, which while old-fashioned and lacking the modern tapering many chefs preferred these days, worked perfectly.  Now that I think about it, he just might have been scoffing my knife.

Of all the silverware that exists, it’s far and away the most used, the most basic and the most useful.  I mean, sharp enough to cut and spear, smooth and solid enough to scoop, it’s like a spork, but better!  Well, if you have a good knife.  My chef knife had long since dulled and no amount of sharpening can seem to return it to any good form.

Truthfully, it has become difficult cutting through tomato skin for goodness sakes!  And perhaps in retrospect it might have been my joke about using the handsaw to cut my loaf of Vollkornbrot I so adore eating that drew his initial assessment to begin with.  I love Vollkornbrot, but, Gentle Penguin, there are times I dread it for its impossible-to-cut-ness.

So when I found myself face-to-face with a sales rep in a culinary store quite by accident while out with a friend, it seemed only natural that my mouth opened quite without prompting and told her I was looking for a knife.  Not just any knife.  A knife that will revolutionize my cooking life.

Gentle Penguin, she didn’t hesitate an instant.  Grabbing my hand she pulled me straight over to a knife that sat on a red satin pillow and whipped it out before dragging me to their test kitchen.  She put it in my hand and produced a cutting board and several root vegetables out of seemingly thin air.

I was in love.

I immediately bought it and went home to put it to use.

My daughters watch as I rapidly reduce a carrot to a pile of small, slender-cut discs; then the mushrooms; crush the garlic; lift the meat into the skillet.  Out come the carrots, onion, and tomatoes—sliced in moments like silk!  Zucchini, cucumbers and even squash melt under its touch.  And you should see it chop my herbs!  It’s like the dance of the Muses!

Then I gently wiped it off so it’s clean before I bring out the Vollkornbrot.  I hesitated wondering if I should still prepare for a sweat-drenching, sawing session, or just try it nice and easy.  I opt for nice and easy…just to see…and all I see is the knife disappear into the solid, dark crust and slide right down to my solid-walnut German serving board that I sometimes use as a cutting board.

After that, our love quickly grew and grew.

I can’t wait to get home to use it for dinner tonight.  To feel its handle cool in my palm and to see the gleam of the blade shining unblemished before I use it to create something nourishing and delicious for myself and my daughters.

I don’t know that I take back my belief that the pen is mightier than the sword, but perhaps it’s better to say that with the right tools, life can indeed be so much more…exciting!

The Penny Jar

When I was littler, it seemed we walked everywhere.  To school, to church, to the corner store, to the park, sometimes even to the post office.  And in all our foot travels, one thing was certain, my mom was bound to find pennies or loose change lying around.

When I was younger and believed unequivicably in magic and miracles, I thought perhaps God knew we were a family of seven living on a tight budget and was rewarding my mom for her thriftiness and ability to make so much with so little.

She would save up those pennies and loose change, and when she had a jar full, (often on a special occasion, like her birthday) she would pour it out, count it and treat us.

Somewhere along the way, I quit walking.  And along with it, I quit believing in the magic.  And so my mom’s pennies accumulated.

Then this summer, my mom’s penny jar broke.  It was a huge jar shaped like a Coca-Cola bottle standing about 3 feet tall.  She asked our help in counting out the pennies.  I thought about that long ago ritual of counting piles of tens and hundreds, the coolness of the pennies in your hand, the joyful sound of the ting as pennies dropped on one another.

I agreed immediately.

That’s when I learned of my dad’s coin collection, for not only did we have to count out the pennies, we had to check each one’s date and sometimes even the treasury stamp to make sure he had the best representation in his collection.  And to fill his penny gaps.

We spent several delightful hours pouring over pennies.  We listened as my dad explained penny history (like it costs the Mint 1.79 cents to make a penny).  We experimented to see if we too could hear the difference in sound between a copper penny and a zinc penny bouncing on my parents’ wooden table.

It was settled, we needed a penny jar of our own.  And a penny collection.

At first, I took great joy in dumping all the pennies that had accumulated in my car and my desk drawer.  But, it was slow going after that.  A penny left over from my lunch, two pennies left over from the farmer’s market, three pennies left over from my cup of tea at the Stoker.

The penny jar became daunting, as if it’d never fill up.  Or perhaps I had lost something else from childhood too.

And so the penny jar sat, quiet and still for a couple months while I found myself occupied with other things.  Pennies relegated to unimportance once again.

Along came Theo Barnes & Noble, our dog (god spelled backward on whom I spend more money than books now).  Somehow I felt compelled to walk him daily.  So early in the morning we’d head out enjoying the quiet stillness and fresh air of our neighborhood.  There was a penny sitting at the corner under the street light.  I’d bend down and pick it up.  A penny at the cross street near the gutter.  A dime on the edge of the parking lot of the corner store.  Another penny in the middle of the park alley.

Pretty soon, the excitement I felt as a child when my mom would find pennies and loose change began to return and build.  The magic returned too.  Perhaps the Universe could tell that I was once again engaged in this seek-and-find game and was rewarding me for not only playing, but stepping away from the technology that kept me from being outside for so long, trapped in its virtual grasp.

Either way, I began to take great joy in hooking on Theo’s leash and walking, looking forward to the glint of round gleam on the ground, and upon returning home, listening to the sound of the change hitting the others inside their respective jars—the pennies in the penny jar, the rest of the change in a separate jar near the door.

Christmas was coming, the goose was getting fat.  I was pleased to put my pennies in my jar-like vat.

But what about this loose change jar? I counted it up—$3.15 from just a few weeks of walking.  It felt like a lot despite the fact that it was so little.  I felt rich. For the first time ever, I truly felt rich.   I earned way more than that on a daily basis, it’s true.  But it didn’t equate to the excitement and magic of $3.15 simply materializing out of nowhere in my life.

What would I do with it?

“Save it.” The Muses whispered in my ears.  “Save it for something you want.  Set a goal and work towards it.  Relearn the excitement of anticipation and belief.”

And so my penny jar and my loose change jar grow fatter and fatter.  And with it, the anticipation grows making this waiting time seem magical once more.