The ever-illusive pitbull snow beast

Our daughters have ridden, pulled, pushed, prodded and otherwise
stuck everything in P-dog's ears, nose and mouth. Nary a nip
(P-dog being short for Penelope)

For all the bad press given to the former presidential dog (see Eisenhower), or the brand logo of an American shoe (Buster Brown), I must say that pitbulls, when raised by decent folk, are seriously mush-pots. Loving. Hilarious. Great in pink. Want a horse? Don't bother. Get a pitbull.

During the latest snow storm, we had our fearless P-dog out in the snow. It was rather hard for her to lift her butt higher than her chest as she attempted to use the snow as an outhouse. I felt for her, but wasn't about to help her out. My contribution was keeping her nipples warm as she brushed the snow, searching for just the right spot. I got this jacket at the Gap, though I don't think the store indulges in clothing for snow-beasts any longer. Too bad. The ergonomics were awesome. The little pocket on the back is for a doggy bag (very handy), and behind the removable collar is an opening for a leash. Thank you Mr. Product Manager!

And as Penelp's trolled through the resort, she got lots of compliments, many happy pettings, and of course, was most often mistaken for a boxer (hello, can people NOT see the long tail?). Whatever. I waited until the hand of the stanger was on her head and she was cooing in ecstacy before I said "she's a pitbull." By that time, they were sold.

Back at the condo, she was hot and ready to be out of her gettup. P-dog had no problems lifting her left front leg, then right as she stepped out of her outfit as easily as Sarah Jessica Parker removes her Jimmy Choos. No sweat. (I think P-dog is cuter and just about as tall).

Penelope, the fearless snow-beast

Lucia's Smile

Oftentimes a weekend will go by without a high or low of note, and it's not until later that I'll reflect on a instance that sticks out like a snow cone at Disneyland on that hot, summer day when I was 12.

It was my recent interaction with Lucia, a woman of Latin American decent, who stands a bit taller than the eggshell colored counter she works behind at my favorite dry cleaner. For thirteen years, her dark, elbow-length hair has swayed across her shoulders as she whirls to lift my clothes from the moving rack, her round frame squished in to skin-tight, solid size ten jeans, atop three-inch heels that cause me to wonder if she's not a vertical eight-wonder of the world. And when she hands me the pen to sign the credit card slip, it's invariable held between ornately airbrushed nails that are half the length of her fingers. Those are the physical characteristics of Lucia, which are now as normal to me as my own skin and hair.

But this isn't what I remembered. It was the smile. Her wide, open-mouthed grin, revealing the crooked from tooth that somehow doesn't detract from her looks, the crinkling at the corner of her eyes created by the muscles under her skin, pushed from from the smile itself. These too add to her jolly countenance, like the pictures of Santa Clause as he puts the cookie in his mouth. Lucia's smile is always accompanied with a question about my children and followed up with another comment on the beauty of the weather, the day or some other subject that she's infused with her inner joy. All this, despite her 13 year, 29 mile commute to and from inner Seattle, leaving her 2 daughters (now 11 and 9), to make a living and deal with (happy) people like me. 

Lucia's smile, 2 times a week, 52 weeks a year, over 100 times a year. In 13 years, that's well over a thousand interactions. Not once has her mouth been turned down at the corners, her eyebrows furrowed or her pants loose. I love consistency, and I love Lucia. She's my idol. I can barely remain overjoyed and happy for eight hours. A week? Fat chance. Yet when I'm around Lucia, I can't respond to even her most benign comments without feeling like a happier person, in a better mood because she has touched me with a bit of her light.

Today I've resolved to make a Monday resolution (for New Year's is long past) to be more like Lucia, and channel my inner happy self. I know at least two times a week I'm sure to reflect the light of Lucia, and that's when I'm in her presence.

Clean like a Swede

I have three friends all homeless at present. One is out because a live powerline is strewn across her lawn, thereby preventing coming or going, not to mention it keeps the water going for the rest of her neighbors using the community well (who are happy to have her and her family of 5 at her mother-in-law's so they don't have to wait for 2 hrs to fix it). Another friend had three large pine trees fall on her newly-remodeled kitchen, missing the skylights but preventing her family from entering until the trees are removed. The third friend is in the middle of a move, and is decamped to a rental home. I would have thought they'd all be complaining about not having their clothes, their food and a bathtub on a cold, winter night.

My smile is just as big as I clean.
Oh, and I always wear huge gold hoops. For sure.

Think again. As a collective, they are thrilled to be out of house and home. Why?

"I'm not cleaning the house!" Shreeked one. The others echoed this comment (all at separate times, since they don't know one another).

What is up with that? Then I learned something, that, well, I already knew. Most women don't like to clean. For that matter, a lot of men don't like it either, yet both sexes blame the messy home on the other person. It's like the parent yipping at the teenager for a messy room, yet the garage, the living room and the car are all disgusting. (not my parents tho. Both were oldest children from big families & therefore have the curse of being clean freaks).

"I didn't care about it until I got married," copped one man, who confessed he'd never picked up a shoe in his life. When he got married, suddenly it was her job to keep the house clean. To be fair to the sexes,  one of the aforementioned women said the same thing about her husband (his job to clean the house, as she is in finance and has crazy hours). She prefers to focus her attention on the insider of her car, not her home.

"I want a clean car," she confessed. "Plus, I can control my car, not my house."

I've documented my spats w/Rog over the "cleaniness" of the house I keep. Pre-kids, easy. Housecleaners. We were dual income, always traveled, once a month cleaning did it just fine. Enter child one. Housecleaners came every 2 weeks, but Rog started to nip a bit (He told me I "straighten" while he "cleans."). For new readers, my house is mostly wood floors, and while they are dark, it takes a vacuuming, sweeping and then on-my-knees cleaning to get those things sparkling. We have 2 cats, a dog and now 2 kids. Do the math. Now we know why many people have carpet, though the notion of carpet grosses out both us, so at least we are on the same page.

One of my temporarily homeless friends confessed she doesn't have a routine and is overwhelmed by the notion of starting one. She can't believe that I actually do all the work at my house in between the housecleaners (that come 1-2 times a month). That would be 12-24 times out of 365 days a year. Let's see. That means I'm the one, daily 'straightening' and sometimes actually 'cleaning' the other 353 days. I get my hair done more than that.

Know how I keep my sanity and sex life in tact? I fall back to my mother's routine that she, in her almighty Swedish wisdom drilled in to us like the cleaning sargent that she was. "Friday's are for cleaing so you can start the weekend," said She. This was followed by the "Saturday mornings are for the hard work."

It's the new year. It's not too late. It's time to turn over a new leaf, regain your sanity and improve all that ails you (have you ever heard the phrase that a clean house is a happy house?)

"Swedish Clean"

After a good scrubbing, my mom would come in for inspection. (I'm not kidding)."If it's not Swedish clean, you have to do it again." And I did, if it didn't pass her test. Guess what? My husband does this, and the man is a freaking Spaniard/Norwegian mix, but I'm beyond caring.

For the beginners (or those that have lost the love for a clean home), it's Friday. Time to begin.

1. Start at the top. Top floors first. Dust travels down hill.
2. Go by category. Bedrooms first. They are the biggest (size wise) & can have the biggest impact.
3. Sheets off (laundry) clean sheets on, make beds. Pick up rooms, put away clutter, vacuum.
4. Shut doors. Done. Now you have closure and can feel good that at least you are going to bed in a clean room.
5. Bathrooms. If you have attached bathrooms, do these first, then the others. First, put away clutter, clean tubs first (less gunk), since then toilets, then mirrors (with new rag) then floors. Take trash out last. Close the door. Done. Fini.
6. Downstairs (or other playrooms upstairs). Room by room. I start w/my living room, clutter, vacuum rug, then oil down table and all wood surfaces, then mop floors. Close door. Done.
7. Living/family room. Cluttter first, then vacuuming rugs (because vacuuming raises the dust, to this before wiping down surfaces). Wipe down surfaces (I use the wood oil etc, diff rag for piano etc), mop wood floors.
8. Bathroom-repeat above, office, similar (clutter, surfaces, remove trash etc), close door.
9. Kitchen. This takes my most time. More surfaces, more space and more floor. The essentials are the same. Dishes first (do, remove, replace in dishwasher), all kitchen appliances (stainless steel wipedown w/dedicated rag), then counters with eco-friendly granite cleaner. Wood fronts last with wood cleaner, along w/bar stools. Mop floors last.
10. Play rooms/downstairs etcs. This follows the same order, Clutter, vacuuming, surfaces, close the door.

Ten (general) steps to feeling better, starting the weekend right without being overwhelmed. Typically, it takes me about 1-2 hours, depending on the state of things (I'm actually taking a break from my cleaning to write this--nice excuse).

If you've been thoroughly bored by reading this, remember two things. First, you never know who may stop over to visit. First impressions last a long time. Second, keep in mind that cleaning your house is like wearing clean underwear. You never know when you are going to get in a wreck and someone is going to have to check on you.

PS. Did I mention my husband takes it as a sign of love that the house is clean, and I did it all myself? After 13 yrs, it's the little things. Then again, he's been making good on his promise to make the bed every day. It's now long past a year! (new readers: he came up w/this himself, back when we needed to gain a bit of love and hope in our marriage. Cleaning is the least I can do. Now that it's sunny, I'm going to clean my car. Beyond a clean house, that's what men really want.)

Valentine's Day Gift Ideas

Let the sparks fly. Get crazy this year. You have 15 days until the big one and it's time to get started.

This is my number one gift idea for gadgety-people like me (or my Dad): a traditional phone that can be hooked to an iphone. For those folks paranoid about getting a cancerous tumor from using a cell phone, this is the ticket. In fact, I might buy 5 and gift them to all my family members for Christmas next year. (comes in blue and red. love that)

Second to that, I seriously want this pocket projector for my iphone. Can you imagine how convenient that would be?? Imagine yourself with your family, friends or whomever, and you whip this baby out and start to give an impromptu slide show. OR, the battery on your laptop dies, you are about to give a presentation to a client but you are saved when you pull out this snazzy gadget, impress the group audience and get a new contract. Oh, visions of grandeur abound. I need this!







Gifts for daughters, moms and grandmas

This year, the latest fun in beauty is crackle fingernail polish, a tan in a bottle and loud colors for spring, like this fun hot pink polish by Butter. If you are at mall or decent store, you can zip over to the Lancome or Chanel counter, grab a few V-Day make-up gift sets, perfect for any female. If you don't have that kind of time, or if your recipients are in another state, do it all on line. If you want to help your lady love be more prompt, get her a watch. I like this hot new watch by Michele, mostly because Rog got it for me as a Christmas gift, since I was dumb enough to sit on my Technomarine ceramic watch, thereby cracking the shell. Until that gets fixed, I'm not trusted with anything other than steel and rubber. That said, big, bulky watches are fun, particularly in the rose gold which is all the rage right now. Don't forget girls like to smell good. I like this set by Viktor and Rolf, and for $110, not bad.

Gifts for sons and Him

Original redneck wine glass can be yours
for less about $12 US

Young men are all about gift cards. Untraceable expenditures for nearly any store imaginable can be found here. For the older male in the house who, like me, are fond of loud, brightly color shoes and fun watches. Another great gift is a hanging men's toiletry case. When the H-wood producer stayed at our house, I was replenishing the towels in his bathroom and noticed his. Aha! Rog needs one.

When searching for a gift for the men in my life, my biggest challenge is I want all their gifts too! Particularly the fun experiences. For instance, I want to rid shotgun around a racetrack going 180 MPH. Tandem skydiving also sounds fantastic. Tragically, Rog isn't about to jump out of a plane with only a parachute so I may have to give that gift to myself.

Whatever you get for whomever, definitely going to whip up some
Red Velvet cupcakes for those that are local. Be sure to use this 'original redneck wine glass' to sip your milk. It will go down so much better, especially when you use the iphone pocket projector to give your romantic photo slide show.

Mind and body hook-ups

It's fascinating to read how many people tie a healthy heart rate to an active, healthy libido. Am I the only person who doesn't get this? I have never, in my Swedish-I-never-say-no to that, felt more interested in getting Olivia-Newton-John when I exercise a lot. In fact, when I over exercise, you know what I want? Sleep.

I will give the theory one point of merit, and that has to do with being seen sans clothes. Or, as my husband says, when I do exercise, my skin tone changes so dramatically that my personality is different. He doesn't need to tell me. I feel it. I'm more confident and frankly a loss less encumbered by the confines of clothing when I feel tight in the muscle, not in my pants. Maybe it's the running around with a bit of nakidity (that would be my own Don-King-ism), singing "I'm a free-bird." Not sure.

Here are a few of my 20 minute tips to get your groove on, your clothes gone and your inner American Idol going for the Free Bird tune.

When watching TV: lie on either side and crank out 50 leg lifts, inner and outer thighs. It will knock off and out that yucky skin and get you into skinny jeans (even men). (quick workout refresher)

Get on the elliptical: Read 20 minutes of your favorite magazine. It's approx 2 miles if you are working hard. Great for lifting up the butt. Less painful than P90X.

Take the stairs: up and down at the office, at the dentists appt. Think about it as an elliptical replacement. I think it's less about burning calories that lifting up the butt and getting cellulite off the back of the legs.

Don't forget the ballet butt-ups. A perfect, 200 second experience with the devil, but in a good way. What's @3 minutes out of your life anyway?

Go for some yoga. It stretches the inner and under arm flabs, and as we know, batwings are about as attractive as the turkey-gobble. But whatever you do, do NOT go on Sundays or Mondays. Know why? The men--the professional athletes that tend to live around my area, hit the yoga on Mon after a weekend of getting beat up and drinking. Beyond stretching, yoga rids the body of toxins, esp the hot yoga, which is my choice. Know what that means? All the badness that has been internalized must now get out of the body. gerr-roose. Stinky. Smelly. Farty. It's disgustingly bad. If you must go, go in the morning. Your sensibilities will thank you.

With V-Day about 2 weeks away, you've got a potential to tighten up, slim down or at least get mentally confident that this V-Day experience will be better than in years past. I have faith that you too, can be a 'free bird.'

 

A Father's Valentine

I'm seeing red. With the upcoming holiday that is represented by all things hearts, I've been remembering my father's best Valentine's gift to me.

It's never too soon or late to start
your PPIs (and ps. works w/boys just as well)

"I've not been so good lately," he said to me, one Friday night when I was about thirteen. "I'm going to get better." Being the standard 13 year old that I was, his comment blew right past me. He was a fine dad. Not around so much, but then he worked. I got that. It was my job to be a surly, quiet and generally speaking, moody teenager going through puberty as best I could, all the while keeping my grades up, avoiding major mistakes with boys and pretending to like church when all I really wanted to do was sleep in on Sunday morning. "We're going to start taking walks. Just you and me."

Thus commenced what Dad referred to as our PPI. Our  Personal, Private Interviews. I'll never know where this name came from, nor what the whole Interview thing stands for. It didn't matter. What I got was an hour of walking through the back forty, down our driveway, on the dirt road for an hour, once a week. No phone. No business. Just us. Yes, it was awkward at first. We had nothing to say to one another. It took a few weeks and then the conversation started to get easier, the silences shorter. Soon enough, I found there was no question I'd asked he wouldn't answer, and that dad had plenty of opinions he'd never shared with me before.

I was reminded of this a few days ago, during nature's version of a PPI. No Internet. No power. The irritating, glorious silence, interrupted by my husband's shouting at the cat for using our carpet as a toilet, the two feet of snow outside was not his ideal toilet. We needed an intervention.

"Let's call a family council," I suggested. The year Dad invoked the PPI, my parents also started the family council. If you aren't familiar with the term, I've realized it was our parents way of avoiding a 1x1 argument, by bringing a hard to deal with topic to "the family," e.g. the children. Rather than Rog and I hashing it out over what to do with Remus (aka Fats), we'd talk it over with the kids, mulling the pros and cons of keeping or kicking out the cat.

"Why bother?" Rog asked, identifying he'd lose council vote before we ever started the discussion.

"Because someday we are going to have serious issues like moving or school changes and we should get in the habit now," I told him. "And while we're at it, have you ever heard of a PPI?"

Rog hadn't, but he loved the idea. One on one with his daughter, providing guidance, a listening ear or real world information all rolled in to one. "Want to start this Valentine's?" I asked him. He readily agreed. I figure if he catches her at 6 instead of 13, that's 7 more years of dedicated weekly-father daughter time. I think that's the best Valentine's gift a man can give.

Starch-less Vanilla pudding in a pinch

7:32 PM and the husband and kids just left the building. Water park time after a day of skiing. I've got the excuse of my monthly gift from above that allows me to stay where it's warm and dry, in front of the fireplace, an entire hour and fifteen minutes of peace. Wash my hair? Clean the condo? Nope.

I race to the kitchen, all the while considering my options for the fastest, creamiest, thicket desert possible, feeling like a convict imprisoned for making a cake with regular bread flour. I'm on the lam and in a rush. Flan? Creamy to be sure, but cold and takes too long. Rice pudding? Sounds divine but I don't have my mom's recipe, and even if I did, I don't have the oranges or the rice. Pudding though hits a button. I flip open The Ultimate Southern Living Cookbook, knowing I lack the cornstarch in my cupboard but hoping for options.

This once again proves my theory that most
American food is some combo of egg, sugar, flour and
butter w/a titch of vanilla extract and salt,
 though not necessary in that order

There it was, page 166. The Vanilla Pudding recipe (cook time 11 minutes), was right above the Banana Pudding recipe (35 minutes to cook). I combined the two (well, using the flour from the second recipe instead of the cornstarch from the first) and changed some of the measurements. In no time flat, I had a full cup full of creamy, vanilla pudding, appropriately hidden in my cup, disguised as warm milk, should my family arrive and catch me in the act.

Creamy Vanilla Pudding 

Ingredients
1/3 cup sugar (I used 1/2 cup)
2 tbs flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 cups milk (I used 2 cups whole milk plus 2 tbs whipping cream)
3 egg yolks (original recipe calls for 2, but since this is w/out the cornstarch, I bumped it up)
1 tbs butter
1 tsp vanilla extract

Process
1. Combine sugar, flour and salt in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat, gradually adding the milk, cooking approximately 6 minutes or until a boil (I used a timer and guess what...at exactly 5 min 55 seconds, it came to a boil).
2. Beat egg yolks 2 minutes or until thick and pale. Gradually stir in 1/4 of the hot mixture in to the egg bowl, stirring constantly. Take this mixture and add back in to the mixture on the stove, bringing to a boil and cook about 3 minutes.
4. Remove from heat; stir in butter and vanilla.


Pour in to small, unassuming little cup and use the smallest spoon possible to elongate the pleasure that will slide down your mouth.

Add bananas if you so desire, or toasted coconuts. Divine.

Got halitosis? Cures for bad breath

Why cure bad breath, commonly known as halitosis? It stinks, but it's not such a funny condition.

I couldn't get around, under, over or away from the conjurer of all that was orally septic the last few days, and I'm not talking myself or my spouse. It was my beautiful, gorgeous, lovely daughter, who was like the Grinch, except not so green and hairy. Since we've been snowed in, the fetid odor coming out of her mouth has been so wrong, so toxically evil that it made the fumes the nearby composting dump smell like the lilies of the field after a spring storm.

Brushing teeth? Nope. That doesn't work for dogs either. Scraping of the tongue? Nice, but temporary. The world of tongue-scraping product marketing folk should be ashamed of themselves. We spend a few bucks on a plastic tongue shovel, or go big-time, investing in a metal jobby, and the essence of white still lingers on what should be soft and pink. Gargling? Whatever. That too, is temporary, but the goodness derived

Imotep's mouth is open really wide because he has really bad breath

from the acid wash is so toxic, its outlawed in half the European Union nations. The last bastion of fixes? Gum. Yeah, right. Let's go ahead and add a nice, thick layer of quasi-sugar mixed with man-made fructoses that are not to be found in nature (who has 'sparklies' in gum anyway?).

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"But wait, what about the white pills." Almost forgot. The white droplets that taste so bad, I was wishing I'd cut my own tongue out, giving myself the Humdai ritual.

I'm reminded of a good friend from my youth. We were the same age (about 12) and our friendship lasted until college, when we went our separate ways. Our brothers hung out together, as did our parents (very occasionally) but still, we had classes each and every year for seven years. Unfortunately, each and every day for those 7 long years, this girlfriend had horrible breath. I'm talking, reeking, nose-raising, eye-watering, hair-singing bad breath. She had, like like Imotep, "the cuurrsssee! Beware the currse!" (go watch the Mummy if you aren't in on the joke). Over the years, the entire school knew about this curse, and the theories were many, as well as the suggestions for the cure.

Not eating enough.
The acids in the stomach roil and boil, like Jobs boils gone underground. When the body doesn't have food, it belches. When the mouth, throat etc don't have liquid, it, like milk, turns sour.

Eating the wrong food.
I've touched on the link between all things wheat and yeasty & being bloaty and farty. Other bad foods cause nice, stinky layers on the tongue and elsewhere.

Not enough liquids or the wrong type.
Here again, what comes in must go out. I'd incur the wrath of about a million dwellers in Seattle if I were to dare point to a dark-colored hot drink found in brown, paper-wrapped cups, so I won't. Let me just say that certain foods aren't so good for staining, nor are they so wonderful for breath**.

A few other causes are tobacco and taking certain types of medications, though these are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. One is a choice, the other is probably temporary (or we hope so). If both are on-going, the job becomes one of on-going combat strategy instead of winning a war. **What I only recently learned was that bad breath is commonly caused by a lactose intolerance. Hmmm. The got me thinking. Every day this week, we've been snow-bound, so I've gone overboard on the whole cooking/nesting thing, making rich breakfasts that required (okay, desire) milk as the drink. We rarely drink milk, and by rarely I mean the kids once a week, maybe, and myself never (on account of me being mortally scarred by drinking warm milk as a child. yick). But this week, heck, morning, noon and night. Sure enough, I gave my daughter water instead of milk for a 24 hr period and like the dew on a blade of grass, her breath was back to its normal sweet smell.

Another culprit for bad breath is low carb diets. This will bring out the worst in oral air. If you've ever tried (or been around) a person who has tried the Atkins diet, you know that all that is to be done is pray that the person succeeds in the shortest time period possible. It really is death and destruction by breathing on an enemy. In fact, when you truly hate someone, give them the Atkins cookbook and wish them God speed. They won't have any friends by the time lose all that weight.

As I've been thinking about my long lost friend, whom this last year, looked me up on Facebook, I realized that she might have had (or still has) a serious issue, like sinus infections, permanent post-nasal drip, kidney or liver disease, bronchitis or worse. The possibility that my friend may have suffered from something significant makes me feel absolutely horrible, as you can imagine, and has led me to be a lot more compassionate (or at least tolerant) when someone breaths rank air in my face. I do what I did back then. I smiled, kept talking, and breathed through my mouth, the entire time.

Them big 'ol Door Knockers

Three years ago, we finally got the addition to our house complete, giving us an actual dining room. I know. The little luxuries in life. Sort of like having a bathroom with a toilet. Big dreams do actually come true.

After the beams were sanded, the wood lacquered and the glass doors hung, we started having what in our household is lovingly called by my six-year old, 'an issue.' It has to do with the handles on the doors.

What? You say. I know, I know. The doors were purposefully ordered sans handles on so we could choose later. Thirty-six months 'later,' we are still no closer to having an aparatus to open and close the darn things. Instead, the doors either stay open or are pulled shut. Why bother have a nice set of iron grips when guests and relatives can look at the grimy fingerprints from top to bottom, accurately reflecting the size of dad, mom, and two ever-growing daughters?

It's like our will. We don't have one. Well, not technically or legally in the eyes of the law. When we were last flying to Nevada in the single engine, the wind was bouncing us around like popcorn in a popper when I rapid-fire texted my sister what I wrote to be my last will and testament. It wasn't a proud moment. Yet each and every time me and Rog start to talk about it, he gets all hung up on the word 'the' and it never gets to a completed sentence. Inevitably, I give up the discussion, acidly pointing out that he'd rather have all our crap go to probate for the state of Washington than actually choosing where to send our children and our money.

Same problem with the handles, seriously. Do we get cowboy handles (horses) simply patriotic (stars) or florence (decorative). Thick (like the wood beams) or thin (like the doors). Color--don't get us started, rusted/burnt iron, black or brown. Angles? Twisted iron or straight. Funny enough, all of the options cost about the same...roughly $100 US. No big deal. I'll skip the meal on Saturday night to pay for it.

"What about knockers?" he suggested. What the... I was speechless. Right, Those big-A round things that belong on the Dracula's front door. Sure. That's just my style. How about the gun handle that I found. Both are equally offensive, don't you think?

In the meantime, I'll be working away, using my non-door handles to close the door, thereby keeping my non-will safe and sound within. But rest assured, when we do get the will done, I'll be sure to identify who gets the door handles.

Rejection Advice? I'll Pass

Never liked being rejected and I never will. At least age has brought with it a thicker skin, so the inevitable stings I feel are now more like ant bites instead of a wasp; they only hurt for a hour instead of three days and aren't accompanied by a large welt the size of an acorn.

"Aren't author's supposed to have thicker skins?" So asked my dearest. No more so than a president think Clinton), an actress (think Kidman) or baseball (think Aaron). I share a kindred spirit with this people as well have all admitted to wanting to be liked, and take criticism rather hard.

It brought me back to the first days of rejection...not being asked to dance at the sock-hops in 7th grade. I was too tall, lanky, buck-teeth didn't really help, nor the freckles that looked like dirt after a really poor wash-job. Or, it might have been my bigger, older brother always lurking in the shadows like the ghost of Christmas future, should a blind boy have asked me to the floor. The horrid feeling displayed itself later, as I grew in to a different, better physical body. Even then, no one asked me to dance, but I was told it was for a different reason--the boys were afraid of rejection. Thus it was that my father wisely told me to 'never reject a boy,' he said. 'He's drummed up all the courage to ask you. The least you could do is be polite. It's five minutes of your life."

Wise man. I took his words to heart, and never did reject a guy that asked me to dance. Ever.

Sadly, life is not so kind. Worse, in the last 14 years (since I got myself a built-in dance partner), the mode and words of rejection has digressed to a pitiful state. It's no longer 'no thanks,' but the curt 'I'll pass."

I was first introduced to this lovely phrase in my early twenties at a technology start-up. It was a commonly used phrase for venture capitalists to use when turning down in an invitation to invest in a firm. As in, you send a business proposal, and instead of a 'thanks for submitting, yadee yadee yada' it was "I'll pass." No hello or goodbye. Same with the media. I'd pitch an idea for an article and the no was a "I'll pass," if they responded at all.

Over time, I got used to the two-word blow off. It was a part of the business culture, and eventually found it's way abroad. Now even the formerly ultra-polite English and French use it (albiet both at least start and end the I'll pass with a "Dear Sarah" and "Sincerely,..."

Just last week,  received a rejection on behalf of a family friend, who wrote a book, I submitted it to my agent in the hopes he'd get picked up. Here was her comment:

Hi Sarah,
I took a quick look and it's a pass for me. The writing didn't win me over.


At last she had the decency to say Hi, let me know she read it, and then provided an explanation. Now that's courtesy, right?

Alas, I must tell you this phrase, so normal in the business world (yet still lacking a bit of diplomacy) has new leeched itself in to the average, workday life of many people whom I would otherwise consider polite. There are times not to blow off a person using the phrase, "I'll pass."

I'll give you one example. A friend asked me to attend one of those in-home sales events. You know kind--where it's one step above Tupperware, except the food is better but the goods are more expensive? It wasn't plastic (the X rated nor the storage), but a clothing gig. I didn't want to at all. It was far away, I was going to feel obligated to go. I went, out of respect for the friendship, spending $200 in the process. Two weeks later, I returned the favor by asking the same friend to attend an author event with me. We'd get to meet the author, I had free tickets, the food was going to be good. Instead of calling me back, or even texting, I get this email, "Sarah, I'll pass. Thanks."

That. Was. It. Amazing you say. It was. I must add that this woman is a fine mother of two, polite in all other respects and a relatively decent cook (not that one has anything to do with other). But you'd think that she could use an additional ten seconds to eek out a response from her well-manicured fingers and at least lie to me. I would have felt better if she made up some lame excuse than to just say, I'll pass.

Similar circumstances come to mind when the use of an I'll Pass is not cool. Funerals. Weddings. Christenings. Thanksgiving Dinner. Dates with your spouse. This is my manifesto on the topic, calling all people to give up the I'll Pass thing once and for all. Instead, go back the time-tested, ever polite, No Thanks, or it's variable, No Thank You. It's all there. The rejection (the 'no' part) the Thanks (which indicates an appreciation for the invitation and/or offer) and if you really go out on a limb, the personal touch (the 'you' part).

Of course, if this doesn't work for you, use the synonym for I'll Pass, and just say 'Hell no.'

Overcoming fear of the water

I've always loved the water, as long as I was on top of it, as in, on a boat, a water ski or a jetski. But get me in anything other than a pool or a foot of water in a stream so clear I could see the sandy bottom and I'd start hyperventilating.


This will surprise my mother greatly, for I grew up swimming in a lake with a sandy shore and murky bottom, going to and from the dock (or walking when the water was low). Once on the dock, I'd wait until I felt like a lick of heat on the surface of the sun before I'd jump in. Far be it from me to avoid participation in the 'night swim' where'd we take the boat out at eleven pm, turn off all the lights and test our courage by jumping in the frigid water, all for the reward of enjoying a hot shower and hot chocolate afterward.

It was all a front. The water freaked me out. Yes, I know, this coming from the dare-devil she, but it's true. Here's the backstory.

As a child, I knew that the Loch Ness monster was fiction and I'd never seen a freshwater lake-dwelling shark. Still. Anything below two feet was the great unknown, and it freaked me out. As in, beyond freaked out. I'd close my eyes, swim as fast as humanly possible and spend as little time in the water as I could manage so no one was the wiser. When I jumped off the end of the boat, my ski boot already on and strapped tightly, I'd gather the rope up as quickly as possible, scream 'hit it' and start to relax the moment I rose out of the water. I'm sure the reason I learned after 2 tries was because I didn't want that ever-elusive man-eating trout to snap off my leg. I'd also swim around on the surface, fins on, because I simply felt better knowing I had a bit of extra speed.

It was irrational, and I knew it at the time. Didn't matter. I wasn't about to let on that it scared me to go underwater. Then fate intervened.

The Accidental, Glorious Cure

"Please will you come???" My younger brother was fourteen, I was 17, and he was begging me to accompany him to scuba diving lessons.  My father had signed them both up for a scuba diving class, and to this day, I still have no idea how or why it came about. Dad had bailed and the class was...that night. As he gnawed his inner cheek, I was wondering how to get out of it without breaking the rose-colored glasses he wore about my love for adventure.

"Where is it at?" No, ocean, no way. Not in a lake. I couldn't even handle looking at the mushy bottom.

He scrunched his eyebrows and cocked his head. "A pool, of course."

Oh. Two hours later, we were learning the basics of scuba diving. The course was an accelerated two week course, the first five lessons all in the classroom (sooo boring until I started to appreciate the value of gauges that regulated oxygen flow whilst underwater), and then the last five in the pool. We started in the shallow end, and seriously, couldn't go under more than a foot of water--for hours. That was so inconceivably boring for a 17 year old, but it served a purpose. The steps of checking out the gear, testing and retesting, then staring at a little bit of water made me want more. We graduated to moving around in our little circle, and then were finally allowed to go in the deep end. All six feet of it. A 20x30 pool is awfully small when that's all you have to explore.

Yet here again, it served a purpose. My fear of the unknown dissipated as I gained confidence in my equipment, and the power and confidence that came with knowing I controlled my time underneath the water. By the time we went on our certification dive, out in the Sound as it is known, I was ready.

The dive itself would be considered awful by the scuba-purist. The Sound is a body of water that is very cold (we wore wetsuits but the smart divers wore dry suits), it was cloudy (visibility 10 feet) and not full of exotic life. Rather, it was rocks and a few shellfish, except for....

The wall of death. But before I get to that, I'll say that the first dive removed any and all fear of the water I'd ever had. There we were, diving along at 20 feet, and I was so comfortable the instructor was worried. "Aren't you breathing?" he asked, worry clear on his face.

"Of course I'm breathing," I said in my 17 year old trying-to-be-nice sort of way.

He lifted up my gauges to make sure they worked. "This shows you are hardly breathing. Are you stressed? Having anxiety?"

It was then I tried my best to explain to him I felt like I was floating on air, flying underneath with a quiet world all around me. The murky, freezing grey didn't bother me at all. I was completely and utterly free. Diving was the most wonderful sensation I'd ever experienced.

He nodded and put my gauge down. "You must be relaxed. I've never seen a diver with such low figures for a gauge before." I took that as a compliment, a sign that I'd overcome my issues.

"Time to get you to the wall," he said, his eyes glinting. I had no idea what he was talking about. He told us that a wall of rock had a sheer drop off down several hundred feet. It would be the "underwater equivalent of looking over a 50 story building, straight down, and then stepping off." It sounded freaky, and I figured this was going to be my make or break, poop in my pants moment.

The reality was nearly what I expected. We swam along at 30 feet and then came to the edge. Sure enough, we peered over it and look down in to the Abyss. Unfortunately, I'd actually seen "The Abyss," and those of you who have as well, understand the nature of a huge drop off like the one in the movie (over a mile of straight down). In any case, my heart caught in my throat and I thought I was going to get dizzy. Yet, he swam out over it (and didn't fall or get sucked in to the great vortex), my brother didn't hesitate and swam over, so I had to follow. Then....we started to swim down the wall. That too, was altogether like the Matrix, running down the Empire State Building.

Then it happened. We stopped, and the instructor pointed to a dark crevice within the surface of the wall.  I gave him a look like "over my dead body." I could just image an eel taking a chunk of my hand. He saw my fear and inserted his own hand. Out came a tentacle. It cautiously wrapped it's limb around my instructors hand, reaching, retracting then extending again. I definitely wanted to try that, so I did. It was the first time I'd ever touched a sea animal. I was hooked.

I went on to dive all over the place, Australia and Oregon, California and Mexico. These aren't places that the 'real' divers I know even bother to mention. They go cave diving, ship diving (all require different certifications), night diving etc. I went off to college and haven't gotten that advanced. I'm just happy to get under the water, and absolutely adore the it now. In fact, being underneath the surface is the most relaxing place for me.

It's not often that someone will voice a fear of the water, and I know why. It's embarrassing and, speaking for myself, I never wanted to admit to a fear I considered completely irrational. I'm glad I got the opportunity to dive, and for the few hundred dollars it is to learn, it's definitely worth the price of picking a new hobby (and probably a lot cheaper than a therapist).

Don't be the Butt Buster- tips for flatulence control

My son may cringe, my husband roll his eyes, my mother gag on her tongue. Seriously. Yet, my daughter will laugh hysterically, my good friend Janel will chortel that I have no sense of shame, while She, the ever-present litmus test of all things in this blog will inevitably announce "If you don't do it, who will??"

Indeed. Let's talk flatulence, or all things evil that come from, as my husband says, 'being bloaty and farty.'

First of all, one must be clinical and pretend unwanted air escaping from a place other than our mouth happens to other people. Second, visualize that the only other folks that address this are on Dr. Oz, and have been paid good money to stand in front of the entire country and talk about...gas. Boy, do I hate that word. I prefer to consider a human's version of anal nuclear warfare, it's slightly less offensive.

What causes gas? Lots of things. For some, it's bread (yeast does it to most women), alcohol, particularly beer (yeast again), pasta (yeast), pizza (yeast),....do you see a trend? Yeast, its essence of wheat, gets in our systems, and depending on the level of the product being processed, the yield of gas is like the buildup of fermented grains inside a farming silo. First the stomach extends like a hot air balloon trapped behind the belly button and then watch out. One match and 'thare she blows!'

A blog on a topic like this deserves a good story, and as my readers know, my life is nothing but a series of tragic events. I'd like to pretend I don't have a fart story, but I have many. Let me share one that is 20 years old, but was my first and most memorable. (I'll keep a tissue handy in case I shed a tear in remembrance).

My personal road of mortification

There I was, in the back seat of a sedan, going from one press meeting to another with my boss, the VP of marketing, in the passenger seat and the chief technology office who was driving. My job, as the communications director, was to handle the media for the company. We were on a bi-coastal press tour, and that meant meeting with all the major press up and down the east and west coasts. I'll skip the illustrious degrees of both men, their long list of titles at major corporations and how I was in awe I was with them. Suffice it to say I was the female, the underdog (in both degrees & career experience), yet I'd nailed mtgs with the Wall Street Journal, NYTimes, Fortune and many others. I was 24. I felt good. In fact, I was feeling pretty much all that. 

Until....all that started making it's presence known in my belly. As the grumbling began, and my butt started to pucker, I felt nauseous in a "I-know-what's-coming-and-I-can't-believe-I'm-living-this-B-movie" moment. It was cold. Very. 20 degrees. The windows were up and the heat was on. I was in pain. I couldn't contain it. (at this point, you can start shreeking...'no, she didn't, no...she couldn't').

Well, yes I could and yes I did. First a little whiff, and then, just like the book Walter the Farting Dog, after the first one seeped out, my poor little bumm couldn't hold back. I might as well hit the booster in my rocket ship of pain.

"Who did that?" said the chief tech officer. "Oh, not me!" rebuffed the VP of marketing.

A moment of silence. And in that long, horrid, mortifyingly-humiliating moment of truth, I did what any 24 year old female would do in such a situation. I went in to strong denial. Of course, they looked at one another, said not-a-thing, and rolled down the windows. Do I still sound mortified? Yes, it's because I still am, lo, nearly two decades later.

Here's the skinny on simple, bloaty-farty preventative measures. The obvious, don't eat the foods that will do you in. Barring that, you need to get some acidopholus, and this will help kill the yeast (or yeast infection). Take 1-2 pills per meal (before or after) up to 6 alkadopholous by Best Process a day. After a few days, you will be entirely rid of you craving for anything with yeast (and all these carbs that are so bad for the waistline). One other helpful remedy is grapefruit seed extract. I have a friend who swears by these. I've tried it while at her house, and yes it works. But I'll be honest and blunt, I'd rather eat dog food than have two drops of this stuff, it is that vile. (more power to the willpower of those that use it, I say).

PS. I never did bring up this little 'incident' with the men, though we worked together for 4 more years. I console myself with the reality they've probably been laughing about it (and me) for the last 19.

The art of the trash can...yes, you can be stylish about it

Stuck in the snow, 7 inches plus another 3 feet expected. As the trash piles high, I can little but consider how much I miss my many, hidden trash cans in my home kitchen. Lucky for me, I anticipated that at some point, I'd get around to writing a blog on such a sexy topic, and happen to have photos on my system. Lucky you.

This would be blog #2 on my kitchen section, the first being on hidden spice racks. Since we are talking trash, we a) want them hidden as well, but b) in obvious, useful places. BTW, whoever thought under the sink was useful, for its where one is washing the dishes. Painful. Plus it's stinky.

The drawers shut

My hidden garbage drawer for trash
(see the rubber band on left, that's my version of how to
keep a two year old out of the drawers. who said I wasn't
cheap and pragmatic??)

Consideration #1. Where you shed trash.
I don't know about you, but the first thing I do when I walk in from the door, my arms loaded up with grocery sacks (for I am yet to be in the class of people who have people to this for me, & as long as I'm w/Mr watchful, never will happen), and drop the lot on the counter. as I'm unpacking, I'm then opening, discarding trash. Once done, I start to actually cook. This means more trash. I want a drawer that is convenient and large to hold a good amount of stuff. That it's close to the fridge was planned as well (think all that good food gone bad).

As a side note, for purists out here (and there and everywhere), I get asked about composting. I love composting. That kind of stink is good. But you know what's bad? Bears. Bears are cute. In pictures. When a mama bear is ripping open a wooden and metal fencing (as two itty-bitty bear cubs look on), it's not so cute. Thus, in my little area of the world, composting ain't happenin'.

Consideration #2. Bins for recycling.
In this day and age, there really is no excuse not to recycle. It's more challenging when you have only one trash can, and a no brainer with 3. In my design, I decided to put in 2, one for plastics and the other for paper. The design is different that the single. Note that the drawer is wider, so the standard size plastic trash cans are horizontal instead of vertical.

Note the 2nd cabinet to the right of the dishwasher.
This is another counter where I do a lot of cooking.

Options
Extra space.
On this particular drawer design (that I came up with myself), I added an extra space behind the trash. This holds my ziplock bags, but I also used it to hold the trash bags themselves (I happened to be out when I took this shot).

Extra reinforcement.
See how the wood is solid, the hinging strong. This is what you need  on the wood frame so it won't bend over time.

Two bins for recycling, includes
the storage space behind for sacks

The key for placing your bins is dependent on your work areas. When you envision your kitchen and the day to day efforts, place the bins accordingly. If you are considering a remodel (or something a little less grand, just rip out a few drawers and replace it with a bin. You will have a lot less trash about, speeding up the entire cooking process (not to mention dramatically improving the happy factor).

Author's working with a movie studio-- A Producer's Notes

It's not all fun and games when working with a movie studio. In truth it's about 90% fun and 10 % seriously hard work. I wake up every day, pinch myself and think how utterly blessed and completely awesome (not to mention other worldy) that I get to have more than a passive role in the book-to-movie process. As such, I feel its my job to pull back the covers on what very few authors have heretofore talked about. What's it like to get feedback from a producer, what happens to the manuscript and how it impacts the way I write.

First--check out the note to the right. This was given to me by Lucas at a sushi joint in early Feb of 2010. Upon reading the Chambers manuscript (all 550 pages of it), he invited me to LA for a 3 day session. I had no idea what was going to happen during those three days, but I figured he did. I went.

I'm mid-bite of a unagi, and he whips this out and says "I have a few thoughts to share." I stop chewing when I see the list. Upside down across the table, it looked very messy. I had chopsticks in my hands, not a pen or paper in sight to take notes. "Keep eating," he advises, "I'll talk."

As an author, my role is to create content, provide it for review, have discussions, talk about scenarios (plot and other story elements as it relates to creating a movie), make the changes, have those approved, and then write the next book.

The 'fun' part is getting my masters degree in movie making under the tutelage of a brilliant man who has churned out box office hits. Would he call his productions life-changers in the dramatic sense of the word? Nope. Nor would he even hint his films are much more than larger-than-life action-packed blow-em up escapes. However, many of the films have a human element that intrigues Foster, (Man on Fire for instance), where choices are made and the consequences of said choices impact the character. In other words, he's the perfect product for my Chambers series.

So let's go through the notes shall we?

Foster's writing is in black, beside the numbers. His seven points were major changes, all with making a movie in mind. I added my comments in purple, after he was done (and what I could remember when we made it back to the studio).

1. more info about the orb. The orb is a time travel object-- an ancient artifact. He didn't think I'd described it well enough. Backstory-- as an author, a major dilemna is when to reveal how much. Too much too soon removes the sense of discovery, while not enough irritates the reader. He wasn't irritated, but he wasn't 'fulfilled.'

2. more of a sense of wonder. (not my scratch/this was after I'd done it, then decided I shouldn't scratch up the original notes). Foster meant that both lead characters should display much more shock and awe (wonder) about their amazing trip/adventure and not be so pragmatic or immediately believing. It was interesting listening to a grown man (49ish) talk as though HE were one of the characters, living the story and being transported through time. (it's not just me, a crazy author!)

3. concern for dad/checking in on him. the lead characters, Cage and Mia, have different emotions about their father. Cage blames him for the death of their mother while Mia is her father's staunchest defender. Foster's point is that children, particularly teens, invariably have emotional struggles with their parents, often times still caring for a parent if when said parent isn't all that great. He wanted to see more of this struggle of emotions that are typical for teenagers (e.g. even tho one is anger at him, still not wanting him to die. I was a bit more one-dimensional in the first few passes).

4. more curiosity about history/cause and effect. This is a huge one that required me to go back in multiple sections throughout the book. The first part was more inquisitiveness on the part of Cage, looking, absorbing and engaging with history. For a reader, Foster pointed out more detail on location, scenes, clothing was required. For an eventual movie, I needed to paint a picture for the director so he/she could get it right. I went back, hit the history books (lots of pictures) and did an entire re-write with this in mind. The second part-- cause and effect, became a huge theme. In short, we all make decisions, every day, that have consequences in our lives. I agreed with Foster that this should be true in the book...once a choice is made, there is no going back. As such, I had to include the notion that Cage and Mia's very presence could/would impact history, therefore they had to be careful to leave as little of a footprint on society as possible. Fortunately, this was great for the plot twists, since the real outcomes of the lead characters from China are not even known by historians.

5. More romance or close calls. Foster pointed out that the true 'romantic' interaction was page 80. Not good for movies. To address this, I added a few glimpses and heart palpitating situations in the first 20 pages, then a few longer scenes in the 30's and @page fifty. After that, the romantic line was all set. Lucas told me he had to capture the romantic part in the first five minutes of the movie or it wasn't going to work. (As a side note, the first 50 pages gets condensed to about the first 5 min of film).

6. More secret admiration from the Emperor (how different he is from Cage and Mia).  Because this book (and all books in the Chambers series) is historical fiction, the Emperor in book one was actually 14 when ruled as the second Ming Emperor. Before Lucas brought it up, I'd never thought about including more information from the Emperor's point of view. Since the book is first person, this had to be done from Cage's point of view. The way to address it then, was through the Emperor's comments and questions, as well as Cage's interpretation of the Emperor's mannerisms and actions.

7. Zheng He is famous and beloved in China. Let's discuss a better set up for him. Years ago, when I was researching volcanoes, and where they resided, I created an entire list of countries/cities. China rose to the top when I found the 14 year old Ming Emperor. While researching the incredible list of historical figures (including the treacherous Minister of War and General Li, who let the invading army in to the Imperial Palace) I came across Zheng He. He is considered by many historians to be the greatest navy admiral to have ever lived (just see the cover story on him that National Geographic did a few years ago). In any case, Zheng He appears in the middle of the book and plays a large role, yet Lucas wanted him introduced much earlier (he is, in fact, one of my favorite characters). I had to create a massive scene for him (e.g. about 20 pages) and then insert him in several other areas. This was a huge rewrite.

**Verbally, Lucas told me I "needed a better balance of good characters." Apparently, I subconsciously focused so much on creating awesome characters, I didn't have a good balance. Lucas was concerned the book would be a bit depressing, and not representative of all the great people in China. The thought had never occurred to me, since lots of characters did good things. "But they aren't main characters," he pointed out. Ahh. He was right. This meant creating 3 new characters, writing entire sections from scratch and integrating each in to the plot line.

Process....
This process is similar to what an editor will provide...general comments that impact the entire book. In order to address each area of feedback, I went in sequential order, going through the entire manuscript, line by line, page by page, adding and changing throughout. It took me three months, and added 150 pages (approximately) to the book. It was about 625 pages when I was done with it. When I handed it off to the editor, she stripped out about 175 pages or so, but interestingly, not the 150 pages I'd added. She cut out dead weight, dialogue that didn't keep the pace of the story and non-essential descriptions. That's the job of an editor. When Lucas read the final, edited version, he pronounced it acceptable and ready to go to final proofreading.

Now that I'm on book 2, and recently got the first 150 pages approved, I'm writing away, and fully expect to go through this same cycle for book 2 (and every one thereafter). The difference is this:

1. I think about the 'seedlings of ideas' that need to be included in the first 50 pages
2. the cadence/rhythm of characters (how often they appear)
3. the descriptions (too much/not enough)
4. the balance of good/evil characters
5. when I reveal what. (in the movie world, it's called 'the reveal' or 'the big reveal' This is now much more top of mind than it was before book one.

Sunday dinner-- Roast and Pecan pie

During my childhood, mom had a routine on Sunday's that included making easy yet impressive all-in-one meals that provided a great lunch but also lots of left-overs. Prepping for the afternoon meal meant she put a roast in the oven before we left for church, allowing it to cook to perfection as we sang to the heaven's above. When we arrived home, the roast was ready, along with the vegies. All she had to do was make the buttermilk biscuits and gravy as we set the table (as we aged, she allowed us to take over the biscuits). Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting down to dine like we were at King Arthur's Court.

Meal in one: The Perfect Roast

Mix of fingerling potatoes (my fav), carrots and onions

My favorite is my clay pot meat roaster. It's divine for keeping the juices in the meat, capturing the gravy and circulating the air for the vegies. That said, I've made 2-sponge breads in it as well, because it turns out a perfectly formed loaf that is brown on the sides and spongy in the middle. The food is restaurant quality (serious).

Ingredients

• Roast
• Vegetables: sweet onion(s), carrots, potatoes (your preference) and any other vegies you'd like
• Broth-your choice
• Salt and pepper

Prior to the onions and additional vegies

Process
1. Heat oven to 500 degrees.
2. Brown all four sides of the roast, on all four sides. Salt and pepper to your hearts desire.
3. Cut one onion, lining the bottom of the roaster.
4. Place the meat in the roaster, covering with the onions.
5. Cut and place carrots and potatoes around the meat.
6. Add about 3/4-1 cp of vegetable, meat or chicken broth.

Once you have loaded up the claypot, place it in the oven and cook away.

Now I completely spaced to get the 'after' photos, so I'll have to do it when I made the next one. Trust me, it comes out perfect. The serve..

6. Remove the vegies, place in a serving dish and keep warm (covered is best, in the warming oven).
7. Make the buttermilk biscuits (will add link).
8. Top off with pecan pie or chocolate mousse.

I recommend a lid with a handle that fits tightly.
This is enough to feed a family of four or 6, depending
on the ages of the kids.

7. Place in the oven at the appropriate temperature and timeframe based on the size of the meat. (6 min/pound at 500 degrees).

Perfect Pecan Pie

It's a fallacy to think that pecan pie is only suitable for the holidays. Many restaurants in the states serve it year around, warmed, with a huge dollop of vanilla ice cream. It's no wonder. It's very inexpensive, requires only a handful of ingredients and is practically idiot proof.

The essentials. Use good ingredients. Don't skimp on the butter. Use a quality brand, and make sure its salted and sweetened. Using unsweetened, unsalted butter results in a bland pie.

Pre-cooking

Another essential is the corn syrup. I'll admit, I avoid corn syrup like the plague. The impact on my health is just not worth the stuff. My lone exception to this (and of course, my justification) is that it's worth it for the pie. Why corn syrup? It is a good thickener, and recipes without it have a different texture (and tend to be runnier). The tip? If you want a slightly thicker pie, use more corn syrup--not much though. A little goes a long way (e.g. if you increase the amount from a 1/2 cup to a 1 cup, it will almost turn to candy. You'd have to cut it with a bit of butter).

Make my tried and true perfect pie crust ahead of time

Ingredients
1/2 cup butter
1 cup white sugar
1 cup corn syrup
1/4 tsp salt
4 large eggs eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/4 to 1 1/5 cup pecans

Directions
1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees
2. On the stove top and low heat, melt the butter, add the sugar and the corn syrup. Heat until melted, stirring constantly.
3. Remove from the stove. Let cool (this means you can insert your finger w/out getting burned).
4. Mix the eggs and vanilla in a separate bowl.
5. Add egg mixture to the butter/sugar mixture. (hint: if your mixture is too warm, the eggs will cook, ruining it, and you will have to discard and start over).
6. Add pecans
7. Pour in to uncooked pie crust. Cook for 50-55 minutes.

The make or break aspect of pecan pie is not to overcook. The top should "bounce-back" to the touch (place your index finger on the top, in the center). If it's hard, it's overcooked and will be unedible. If it's mushy, you need to cook it a bit longer.

When you remove the pie, place it on a cooling rack for at least 20 minutes. This will ensure it sets and doesn't run. Serve warm with ice cream.

This is the butter, corn syrup and sugar.. ..nicely melted

As it's melting (and in between stirring, chop the nuts)

Test the mixture for "done-ness" (my Don-kingism). The mixture should drop easily from the spoon

Take off the stove and cool slightly. Add the nuts
Now, you might exclaim "why nuts! those belong at the end". I'll tell you why.
you must wait for the mixture to cool, or else you will curdle and cook your eggs
(in other words, they will scramble). Since you have nothing better to do,
you might as well get busy and add the nuts, stirring it around.

When the mixture is sufficiently cooled, add the eggs

This is the final mixture--slightly brownish. NOW you may add to the empty sheel

Photos...