Dear Doris Kearns Goodwin

I haven’t been tending my blog because I’ve had my nose in a book.

Dear Doris Kearns Goodwin, 

Thank you for writing the book “Team of Rivals” It was a masterful study of Lincoln’s political and personal life that caused me to eagerly turn the pages, laugh out loud on occasion and even though I knew the eventual outcome, (come on, do I really need a *spoiler alert* here?) I cried at your portrayal of his heartbreaking death. I can only imagine the amount of research...

I’ve never written a letter to an author of a book, but if I were going to write such a letter, it would probably be to Doris Kearns Goodwin and it would probably start something like that.

“You know, everyone has different taste buds, Gagi.” And Mol, let me tell you, never are those taste bud differences more pronounced than the reading tastes of your Grampy and me. We practically never read the same books. He prefers non-fiction, like history books and biographies, but will read a good mystery now and then. I prefer fiction, even science fiction, to most non-fiction. Every now and then I suggest to him a book I think he’ll like. Sometimes he reads them, sometimes not. Take “Water for Elephants.” Upon closing the book after the last sentence I handed it to him and said, “Here. I think you’ll like this book.” He read it and thoroughly enjoyed it. (smile)

We both own Kindle-type readers and have separate libraries of  e-books. Occasionally, we share these e-books. I have this vague recall of my husband carping about the price of the “Team of Rivals” paperback and the e-book versions being identical and my husband saying something like, “Well, if they can’t give me a break on the e-book, I might as well buy the actual book.” That sounds like how he might reason it out anyway.

Long before he finished Doris Kearns Goodwin’s “Team of Rivals” he said, more than once, “You know, you just might like this book.” He handed it over when finished. It’s quite a tome for a paperbound book, weighing in at hefty 2.25 pounds, with 750 pages of the actual book and an additional 150 pages of footnotes, notes and indices. So, it was a couple of weeks before we left on a 800+ mile journey that I decided to tackle the book. As I was nearing the middle of the book, I said, “I think I’ll take the book with me and if I finish it in time, I can give it to one of the kids.” My husband reached for the book and clutched it to his chest. “No. No, I want to keep it.”
“Honestly, babe, how cheap can you be? I want to give it to one of our children to read. We can always ask for it back.”
“Okay, I guess,” he acquiesced.
“Oh, never mind,” I said. “I won’t bring it along and I won’t be tempted to give it away.”

Having finished the book I understand how he felt. I don’t want to part with the book either. In fact, I now hold this book to be sacred, sacred like a preacher holds the bible in his hand and considers it to be sacred; sacred, like a farmer looks at his earth and holds it to be sacred; sacred the way some couples consider their marriage vows to be sacred.... ( ;-) I stole borrowed that bit from the late Sam Kinison) Seriously now, I treasure this book. I am thinking I may buy a hardcover copy and give our paperback version away, (don’t you love how I now consider it ‘our’ book?) but not until I have that hardcover safe in my clutches. And I will write a second letter, a letter to my husband thanking him for recommending this book. That will be after I apologize to him for calling him a cheapskate for not wanting to give away his book.

Have you ever read a book where, when you find yourself nearing the end, you slow down your reading because you have a dread of the book ending? I savored every bit of the last chapters. The book is such a beautifully crafted account of an amazing man and if, like me, you think you already know all you need to know about Abraham Lincoln, I promise you that you’d be wrong. Kearns doesn’t just string dusty facts together, but carefully cards the fibers, then spins and weaves them into a beautiful, colorful cloth that portrays a person of impeccable decency and integrity, with a total lack of vindictiveness, and possessing a single-minded mission to preserve the union and its original principles. And I love the subtitle on her book, “The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln,” for a genius indeed was he.

Ulysses S. Grant said of Abraham Lincoln, “He was incontestably the greatest man I ever knew.” If you want to meet this man, Doris Kearns Goodwin’s book will bring him to life for you. But, let me warn you, you may then, like me, feel a profound loss when you lose that good friend. :-(

A Taste for Chicken

I’d hear a rustle in the kitchen, maybe the opening of a cabinet or two, followed by a wail from a teenaged soul standing in front of our open refrigerator, “I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat in this house!” Now firstly, no one in my house was ever 'starving.' And secondly, my refrigerator is always full and my larder well-stocked. But, I understood how they felt. Sometimes you just have a taste for something...

Another cry I often heard was, “What’s for dinner?” I imagine they were waiting, hoping to hear me name a dish they were craving. They weren't hesitant to offer their opinions. "Ugh!" or maybe "Yay, my favorite!" Now I don’t hear those phrases too often. Now, we are empty-nesters.

Empty-nesters... that phrase brings a picture to my mind of the parent birds who bring their fledglings to our feeders in the summer. It’s a funny sight, since many of the  young birds are as big or bigger than their parents. I ponder if this ritual, of taking the fledglings to visit possible food sources, is the last step before the family vacates the nest (sigh)... but, back to my line of thought: deciding what to make for dinner.

I used to shop any number of city grocery or produce stores, all within my regular work-to-home commute. I’d hit the stores 4-5 times a week, able to buy and base my meals on whatever was on sale or in season. Now, with the closest grocery store ten miles away (and having only meager provisions) and the better stores 20+ miles away, and the very best grocery shopping being 45 miles away, and I, with a firm determination to only grocery shop once per week, it takes some careful planning to determine “What’s for dinner?”

My husband is not a fussy eater and would be happy with a casserole made of leftovers. No, my kitchen angst comes from within me. I spend a lot of time reading recipes, food blogs and cooking websites. Often it a matter of whatever I’m craving at the moment. Or, maybe choosing a dish we haven’t had in a while. Like German Sauerbraten with Spaetzle, I’ve been thinking about that dish a lot lately.

Recently I was walking through a grocery store with a perplexed look on my face as I scanned the shelves. A stockperson asked if he could help me find anything. “Yes please. Just where do you keep your inspiration?” He hesitated for just the slightest moment, laughed and said, “Sorry, we’re fresh out.”

I have a system that makes meal planning somewhat easier. It goes like this: Mexican Friday, Pasta Saturday, Homemade Pizza & Salad Sunday, Homemade Bread and Soup Monday, Vegetarian Tuesday, and Leftovers Thursday. That leaves only one day to scratch my head in decision of what to make. I ask my husband if he has a taste for anything. Surprisingly, he immediately pipes up, “Yes, I’d love some fried chicken.” He pauses and adds, “And mashed potatoes and gravy, and a side of coleslaw, the creamy kind made with mayonnaise.” Typically, I’d only make fried chicken once a year, okay, maybe twice.

Now I’m almost sure this desire on his part is a result of two things, 1) he also missed the fried chicken that was absent from our monthly potluck, and 2) the meal he described is exactly what our clubhouse’s former chef used to make for his Thursday night special.

We had to go into town anyway to pick something up, so I grabbed a whole chicken from the store. They sell chickens raised by local farmers and they’re delicious birds. I chose the “Roger Ford Family” chicken, bypassing the “Seth Atwood Family” and the “Schmidt Family” chickens. The store actually handwrites the name of the family on the packaging of each chicken. I’ve chosen different farms and never had a bad one.

I was only recently able to put chicken back on the menu, after an episode this past summer involving a sealed bag of chicken left in our car for two days in the blistering heat that rendered neither of us able to even think about eating chicken for a solid six months. But time heals wounds, or at least covers them with enough scar tissue that the event can eventually be blurred enough to be recalled without wincing.

So, if I haven’t repulsed you with my summer chicken tale, I present my recipe for the best fried chicken ever. It has three cooking ‘secrets’ that put this recipe over the top.

Rae’s Best Fried Chicken

Prep: 1 1/2 hours Cook: 20 minutes
  Yield: 4 Servings

dry coating ingredients:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup corn starch (secret # 1)

1 teaspoon paprika

1 pinch of cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon of ground allspice (secret #2-seriously, don’t skip this step!)

pinch of garlic salt

1 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

batter ingredients

1/3 cup buttermilk

1 egg

pinch of dried thyme, crushed 

1 broiler/fryer chicken (3 to 4 pounds), cut up

Oil for deep-frying

Mix the first eight dry ingredients (flour through black pepper) together and put them in a gallon-size ziplock bag. Set aside.

Mix the batter ingredients together, buttermilk, egg and thyme in a shallow bowl.

Pat the chicken pieces dry with a paper towel and coat lightly with the flour mixture. Place the lightly flour-coated chicken pieces in the shallow bowl with the buttermilk mixture and coat them well on all sides.

Take the wet battered chicken and dredge once again in the dry flour mixture, coating the chicken well. They should be completely covered in the flour mixture. Place the coated chicken on a plate or platter and let them sit for one hour to dry, in a cool location (secret #3 - letting the coating dry well is key to crispy chicken).

When ready to cook, heat oil to 375°. Fry chicken, a few pieces at a time, for 9-10 minutes on each side or until chicken juices run clear and the chicken is nicely browned. Take care not to crowd the chicken in the pan. Drain on paper towels and serve immediately. Yield: 4 servings.

Be patient, let it dry!

For an added bonus, I made my husband's fave, dressing (or 'stuffing'), made from

leftover bread I'd stuck in the freezer.

Note: I purchased a whole chicken and cut it up myself. I used the breasts and legs for the fried chicken, (because it’s just the two of us now.) And at that it will likely serve us for two meals. I froze the rest of the chicken, the wings, thighs and back and will use them to make a soup later this week.

Other note: I'm off now to shop at one of my 20+ miles-away grocery stores. It's located in Iowa and is more like 30+ miles-away, but it's a pretty drive and we'll fill the gas tank for the car, as gasoline is cheaper and less heavily taxed in IA (30 cents less per gallon today).

A Taste for Books

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Because basically we all have similar reading tastes.” I was absorbed in scanning the authors names on the spines of the books in our community’s ‘library.’ I looked up to see an acquaintance. He was talking to me about the book selection at our library, a collection of books donated by residents wishing to share their love of reading. It contains an ever-changing mix of over 1,000 books, kept in alphabetical author order by volunteers. Our library has one rule: “read & return.”

I nodded and we chatted for just a minute and he moved on to his golf game. I continued to peruse the books, thinking that I didn’t really have the same tastes of my neighbors at all. Our library has a lot of Grisham, Patterson, Grafton, Koontz, Stephen King and the like. And someone here is a big fan of Maeve Binchy. Not that there is anything wrong with these authors works. They’re just not to my liking.

Now that I think about it, no one even among my family or close friends really likes the type of books I fancy. I favor Japanese and British literature. I’d occasionally find some Brit Lit here at our little library, but I’d never seen a book from a Japanese author. I’m pretty certain that unless I put it there on the shelf myself, there never will be one. Hey, that’s a good idea, I think. But, when I get home and go through my limited collection, I find that I cannot bear to part with any of my Japanese authored books. I’m one of those people who likes to go back and reread favorite books, or at least portions of them. Since the Japanese books are harder to come by for me now, I can’t find the generosity in me to donate them.

The local public libraries here are small, with limited collections. They charge a fee for non-residents, like me. They will help you order  books from other libraries, but it’s a complicated, lengthy process. So, I’m relegated to buying used books online from Abebooks.com or putting them on my Kindle account at Amazon.

I think back to the days when I had a library card to one of the largest public libraries in the nation. I think of the numerous used books stores that dot the city. I think of my former job that gave me access to a huge university library. I used to walk over on my lunch hour. I’d walk up to the 2nd floor, which held the library’s foreign fiction. I knew exactly where the Japanese and British novels were. I’d spend 1/2 hour or so choosing 3-4 books and walk back to my office already devouring one of the books as I walked, feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

When the longlist for The Man Booker Prize, an annual contemporary fiction award, given to writers from the British Commonwealth and Ireland, (like a British Pulitzer?) came out in July I could usually put my hands immediately on most of the 12 books, with the goal to read all of the books before the winner was announced in mid-October. It was a goal I never accomplished but always enjoyed trying.

There was a sci-fi TV show when I was a kid called “Twilight Zone.” My favorite episode was one called “Time Enough at Last,” based on a short story of the same title by Lyn Venable. It told the tale of a beleaguered, henpecked, myopic, bank teller with a micromanaging boss. The teller loved nothing more than reading and sneaks down to the bank’s vault one day to get in a bit of reading. While inside the vault the world is annihilated in a nuclear holocaust. He exits to find the town in rubbles and everyone dead. He’s walks about dazed for awhile, then stumbles across the public library, which is still standing. He realizes this is an opportunity he’s dreamed of most of his life. All the time in the world to read all the books he wants. He chooses a stack of books and settles in to read, but trips or something, knocks over a shelf of books and breaks his only pair of eyeglasses. Being farsighted and realizing he’ll never be able to read a word, he begins to weep.

I’m not wallowing in pity for myself, but I am envious when I read online that there is an actual book reading group, in NY I think, that is devoted solely to reading and discussing  nominees and winners of the Man Booker Prize. Once I found a Man Booker prize winning book by Peter Carey on the shelf at our community library. I love Carey's style of writing. I read and returned the book and now harbor a secret fantasy that somewhere here in our community is a person, female or male, someone who donated that book, someone walking about, maybe someone that I already know, but somewhere here is someone with whom I may someday have discussions with about good books. And just maybe that someone will like to read my Japanese fiction...

Note: As I was taking a second look at this posting I noticed that I do have a duplicate of one of Kazuo Ishuguro's early novels, A Pale View of the Hills. And even if he is really a Japanese person who was raised in England, (his parents emigrated when he was just 5 years old or so), his writing style contains elements of both British and Japanese styles of literature.  I'm going over right now and donate it. :-)

"Everybody Has Different Taste Buds"

“Well you know, Gagi, everybody has different taste buds.” A direct quote from my 5 year old granddaughter this past holiday season. One of those bits of philosophy passed on through the generations. I don’t recall what we were talking about at the time. But, I decided that her comment will be my inspiration for the next couple of weeks. 

We occasionally attend a monthly potluck supper that some of our neighbors host at our community’s lodge. I usually bring both a main dish and a dessert. I’ve inherited some gene from my mother that makes me go overboard when it comes to food. My mom was a good cook. She found some sort of satisfaction in pleasing our individual palates, often making more than one entree, so as to give you a choice. Not like some moms where your choice is: “take it or leave it.”

The group that hosts the potluck purchases a huge tray of fried chicken from a local restaurant. Every couple or person attending brings a dish to share. It’s usually a nicely balanced mixture of main dishes, soups, salads, sides and desserts.

I’ve learned quickly that this group seems to have pretty basic tastes where food is concerned, no real connoisseurs of taste buds here, nothing deemed too spicy, nothing deemed too ethnically different, i.e., I can’t imagine that a crock full of Indian dal or a plate of sushi would go over very well. A debacle occurred last night when it was discovered that someone forgot to order the fried chicken. People grumbled good-naturedly all evening, and it would only be a bit of an exaggeration to say that a few nearly came to tears. At any rate, it was obvious that the chicken was a big draw for most.

I’d made a tray of mostaccioli and bolognese sauce for my main dish and in the last hours decided to try my hand at macarons. For the sake of keeping things basic, I opted for a batch each of vanilla macarons with vanilla ganache and chocolate macarons with chocolate ganache. I wanted to make whipped ganache for each, but time ran out and I wound up with whipped vanilla ganache and regular chocolate ganache.

Here is the basic recipe for the macarons and ganaches:

Macarons

3 egg whites

1/4 cup of granulated sugar

1 2/3 cup of confectioners’ sugar

pinch of cream of tartar

1 cup of almond meal/flour

3/4 teaspoon of vanilla extract, if making vanilla macarons

3 tablespoons of baking cocoa, if making chocolate macarons

Line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or Reynolds’ Non-Stick Foil or baking parchment. If you do not have these non-stick aids, don’t bother making the macarons.

Prior to making the recipe, separate 3 egg whites into a small clean bowl, making certain that not one bit of the yolk is in the whites. Stir or whisk them a bit with a fork, cover and set them aside for at least an hour or until they are at room temperature.

Sift confectioner’s sugar and almond meal in a separate bowl and set aside. (If you are making chocolate macarons, measure out the cocoa and sift with the confectioner’s sugar and almond flour.)

Fit a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment and until whites are foamy; beat in the granulated white sugar and a pinch of cream of tartar. Continue beating until egg whites are glossy, fluffy, and hold soft peaks. Do not overbeat.

Sprinkle vanilla extract over egg whites if making vanilla macarons. Quickly fold the almond mixture into the egg whites using a rubber spatula. Gently fold the ingredients until they are just combined and don’t be too concerned if the meringue seems to deflate. Stop folding when there are no traces of egg whites and the batter resembles a cake batter.

Spoon the batter into a pastry bag, fitted with a round tip or a plastic bag with a small corner cut off.

Pipe the batter onto the baking sheet in 1 1/4 inch rounds, leaving 1 inch of space between the rounds. Bang the tray of rounds on the counter a couple of times. Then let the piped cookies stand out at room temperature until they form a dry skin on top - at least 30 minutes and up to 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F and bake cookies until set but not browned, about 10 minutes; let cookies cool completely before filling

This little bit of rough area on the bottom of the baked macaron is called its "feet"

Whipped Vanilla or Chocolate Ganache

4 ounces of good quality white or semi-sweet chocolate, chopped in small pieces

4 ounces of heavy cream

1 tablespoon of unsalted butter
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract or a scraping of vanilla bean

Heat the cream in a small saucepan over medium heat until it just starts to boil. Gently stir in the chocolate, then let sit for 1 minute. Add the butter and vanilla and stir until smooth. Chill in the refrigerator until thickened but still spreadable, about 20 - 25 minutes. Whip in a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment for 1-2 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl with a spatula and beat for one more minute.

I read this article in the New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/01/science/worms-produce-another-kind-of-gold-for-farmers.html

I’m interested in farming, but having a couple of farmer friends, I’ve come to recognize the numerous downsides of farming. But worm farming/vericomposting? That would be right up my alley. None of the problems with animal management. Who couldn’t manage  worms? I’ve never heard of worms getting sick or needing antibiotics, inoculations, or kicking or biting you when you’re trying to help them. And with the raised, covered bins, probably not as much problem with drought, floods and other weather-related farming problems. 

I like to look up the origins of words and for the word ‘compost’ I found:

from Latin compositus  to put or come together; (see composite)

Uh huh, uh huh, makes sense, like the opposite of decomposition. 

One of the items that made the list of ‘possessions to be moved with us to the country’ was our backyard compost bin. When we moved into our city home 35 years ago, there was a crude compost bin in our backyard. It was made out of discarded pallets and chicken wire and tucked under a large lilac bush. I’d never composted before, but the idea appealed to me and I used it for years, until the wire rusted out and the pallet wood began to rot and decompose.

After a few years without a compost bin, I missed the enriched, fertile soil it provided, free soil enrichment that added microorganisms, worms, arthropods and humus to our city soil, enrichment that gave a boost to soil that was otherwise clayish and dense. I coaxed my husband into agreeing that we needed to purchase a sturdier, ready-made compost bin. “It will will keep our compost tidier and our yard looking neater. We won’t have to spend so much on various bags of soil enrichers.” Who knows what else I promised, but armed with his backing I began my research. And not surprisingly, given my dichotomous nature, I opted for a polypropylene model.

Polypropylene? I mean really, if one of the more important purposes of using a compost bin, at least for me, was to reduce waste and promote recycling, how in the world could I justify this behemoth hunk of "forever" plastic? I’m pretty sure I’d my eye on a handsome, rot-resistant wooden one, but it probably cost five times what my black plastic bin would cost. Once again, as in many a battle between the preservation of the environment and the preservation of our bank balance, the bank balance won out.

I must say, however, that 15 years later it stands, proudly, outside of our new country home. Okay, maybe not so proudly, as I have it tucked behind a couple of shrubs in an not very noticeable area near the side of the house by the deck. But, it has held up remarkably well over the years. Which makes me think the environmentalists are probably correct when they say that polypropylene will take a thousand years to break down. Or, is that polystyrene?

Our country waste collector has limits on the amount of waste they will pick up, without charging additional costs. We were totally spoiled in the city, where there were seemingly no limits to what one can discard. So, in an effort to reduce the amount of garbage we produced, we took a renewed, fevered interest in proper waste management. We separate out our recyclables for pick-up, and we participate in our county’s annual “electronics, hazardous waste” drop-off, so when we compost our food waste, we really have very little ‘garbage.’ 

It was a bit trickier setting up our compost bin out here. Within a couple of days, the varmints had discovered it. They’d figured out quickly how to open the lid. When we secured the lid they’d dug underneath the bin to enter from underground. (Note: our compost bin is the type that has no bottom, to allow for worms to enter and process the waste.) We secured chicken wire to the bottom and lower sides of our compost bin and we were back in business.

Composting has now developed into a good habit. I could no more toss a rind or peeling into the garbage than I could toss a piece of garbage out of my car window while driving. And It serves a better purpose to compost than to dump food waste down our garbage disposal where it will go into our septic field. And best of all, we have the free fertilizer I promised my husband. It’s the little things in life... ;-)

Idle Musings or Here's What I think about When I'm Housebound

There was a huge silver maple tree outside of my city home. On more than one occasion I’d find myself on a beautiful summer day sitting in my living room reading a book or something. I’d look up at the tree, marveling at the thick beautiful canopy, filled with the activity of birds, squirrels, and insects. Right then and there I’d make a pledge to myself that I’d somehow savor this moment. I would “bottle it up” inside of me, like preserves made at the end of the summer. And then, when I needed it in the middle of winter, I’d pull it out and enjoy the fruits of summer.

It would sustain me me in the winter when my thoughts run something like this:

Summer, oh Summer, Summer, Summer... I promise that I will never again take you for granted; not even when you give me a solid week of 90+ degrees with high humidity. I admit I took the occasional nap when I could have been out frolicking with you. And maybe I tuned in with the air conditioning a few evenings when I should have been out with you gazing at the stars. But, I swear I was wrong. I need you, Summer! I’ve tried to forget you, but I can’t! Oh, please, please come back!

Like all of my quixotic musings, it remains beyond my grasp.

This week finds me sick with a bad, bad cold. Despite the aches, fever and pain, it cannot be the flu, right? I mean, I dutifully received my flu shot this year, at the advice of my new doctor who assured me I’d not regret it what with the record number of sick people she’d already seen in her office.

I checked to see which strains were chosen this year for the CDC flu shot:

On February 23, 2012 the WHO recommended that the Northern Hemisphere's 2012-2013 seasonal influenza vaccine be made from the following three vaccine viruses:

• an A/California/7/2009 (H1N1)pdm09-like virus;

• an A/Victoria/361/2011 (H3N2)-like virus;

• a B/Wisconsin/1/2010-like virus (from the B/Yamagata lineage of viruses).

I’m certain there is a science to it, but to me it looks like they picked the top flu of each of the past 3 years, 2009-2011, and combined them.

My husband and I missed a New Year’s Day celebration with long time friends this year, despite having gone to their home nearly every January 1, for almost 30 years. I’d like to think that my foremost intent was to keep others from becoming sick by spreading germs, but if I’m completely honest with myself (New Year’s resolution # 27), it also had to do with vanity and the fact that I look terrible with red swollen eyes and have actual abrasion of skin around my face from constant wiping with tissues. (So sorry we couldn’t make it, J & M!)

Oh, and will you just look at my new x-country skis, bindings and boots sitting unused under the tree? Meanwhile, the snow outside turns rock hard from constant daytime melt and nighttime freeze. So, until we get some fresh powder and I get better, I’m not going to get to use them.

I will gird my loins and fight back!

I mix up a batch of "Jewish penicillin."

I vow, right here and now, that I will never again take my good health for granted (New Year’s resolution # 11). I will always appreciate my days of energy, exuberance, vim, vitality and vigor. I will jump out of bed, ready to enthusiastically begin each and every day.

Good health, oh good health, good health, good health... I promise that I will never again take you for granted; not even when...... Wait, I think I feel the NyQuil kicking in... Zzzzz

z

  z

     z

Happenstance

Some traditions are a result of intention. They are planned.  Some traditions are a result of a serendipitous event that is either meaningful or pleasurable enough that you wish to repeat the experience.

I’ve always enjoyed baking, cookies in particular. At some point I was begged encouraged to teach a couple of friends to bake cookies. It ended up being more fun than I’d anticipated. We had some laughs. In a matter of a couple of years it evolved into my annual holiday kick-off, “Cookie Central.” I’d decorate the Christmas tree and put up holiday decorations prior to the event. Every year more guests would be added to the list. We would decorate dozens and dozens of cookies, while eating hand-tossed pizza, salad, and hot chocolate or apple juice for the young’uns, wine or beer for the grownups. And with bellies full of cookies from sampling, everyone went home with a box or two of decorated cookies.

When I moved 120 miles away I was certain that “Cookie Central” was a goner. But, a couple of brave souls made it out here to carry on the tradition. They departed with talk of “next year.” I also packed cookies to bring to my grandchildren so we could continue to decorate cookies together at their new home 900 miles away. And thus, “cookie central” tenaciously lives on, a spontaneously-initiated tradition.

This Christmas our family gathered out-of-state. I’d told our hosts that I’d volunteered to be a substitute on the ladies bowling league in my new locale. I complained of being rusty from not having bowled in years. So late Christmas afternoon they found a bowling alley that was open and we all went bowling. It was fun and everyone could participate from the youngest to the oldest.

And who can predict? Is this the seed? Will it germinate? Is this the beginning of a new tradition?: Bowling on Christmas day. ;-)