sea salt

In honor of the beautiful children of Sandy Hook Elementary School, and in loving hopes for my wonderful nephews.   My two nephews are almost 5 and 6 years old. Like so many young boys their age, they love things that fight: Spider-Man, Batman, Darth Vader, Stormtroopers, pirates, and lately, ninjas (shh, these ninja cookies I made them are a surprise for Christmas). They aren't violent kids, and my sister is a tremendous mom who shields them from as much violence as she can. They don't play violent video games, they don't watch violent movies, they are scolded when they pretend to shoot people. And yet, in their young, black-and-white world where justice reigns supreme, they are drawn to a good fight. They like to know who's a good guy and who's a bad guy. There has to be a winner, and there has to be a loser. It's one of the most complicated and beautiful aspects of children: they want pure truth, without anything muddying the waters. I am a...

Next week I am going to make my own wedding cake. No, I've never made a wedding cake before. Yes, I am already married. On October 2, I'll be celebrating two years of marriage with my wonderful husband. We had the best wedding either of us has ever been to (that's the point, right?), and of course that included a delicious cake. Admittedly, we let our moms pick the flavors, as we let them decide on everything except flowers (I insisted on sunflowers) and music (we picked our own live band). Neither of us wanted a cake that was too fancy or fussy, so we asked the decorator to simply pipe on the design from our invitations, a simple orange outline of leaves on a vine, topped with two birds in wedding clothes. It was perfect. Per the custom, they sent us away with the top of the cake to freeze and eat on our first wedding anniversary. But not per the custom, we couldn't take the cake with us, as we were leaving the next day on a one-way flight to Nashville , wher...

Three years ago today, on my laptop in a one-bedroom apartment near the beach, I started this blog . I had no idea what I would say, or why I needed a blog, but I felt compelled to write consistently, and write with the courage to share my writing with the world. Along the way I had a few bumps: months of fear when I felt I had nothing to write, days of self-doubt when I wondered if I shouldn't be writing so honestly, moments of panic when I thought nobody was reading. So much has changed since that first post. Someone else lives in that one-bedroom apartment near the beach. I lost a few people I loved, and I married my best friend. I got published again, and then again, and I started new blogs. I moved away, and I moved back, and I discovered more and more about who I really am and what I hope to do in the time I have on this earth. But one thing hasn't changed: the reason I write. In that first post I wrote: As I write, submit, teach, connect, and change, I hope I lear...

I never understood those people who complain about their birthdays being close to or on Christmas. Their reasoning is that they don't get as many presents because most people just give them a combination Christmas/birthday gift. That always seemed pretty obnoxious to me, and confusing. If your birthday falls on a special holiday, it means your family is together. Everyone is festive. People are smiling, celebrating, joyful. And you get to share that. My best friend's birthday is September 11th. She gets to share the day with the nation's mourning. The recounting of the "Where were you on 9/11?" stories. The photos and videos of that day replayed on every news station, every flag at half-staff, the moments of silence before memorial speeches. There's no selfish complaining about not getting enough presents - there's the awkward and inescapable realization that while she's opening presents and blowing out the candles, thousands of people are crying...

A few days ago Kevin and I sat ourselves down in the spare room and forced ourselves to sift through boxes and bookshelves, crammed with so many things and memories we had been packing, unpacking, and packing again every time we move. While we're pretty good about throwing away things we really don't need (I cringe every time I see a preview for the show "Hoarders," and I've never been able to watch a complete episode), there was a lot of physical and emotional weight to lose. Notebooks from high school, textbooks from college, silly notes and photographs from so many roommates. The Chiquita banana keychain my father had given me got to stay, and so did a Coke bottle from Italy, but a stack of coasters went into the junk pile along with a handful of floppy disks. Kevin had to confront a tall pile of music books, while my biggest challenge was a stack of boxes full of cards. I've always loved saving cards. As a sensitive person, a writer, and a very devot...

One summer, my mother gave me a task that would require hours of work, extreme organization, and most importantly, a deep, abiding love for recipes. Her giant yellow 3-ring binder was bursting with recipes that had at one time been organized. The binder had tabs for breads, salads, meats, and all the usual recipe categories, and was stuffed with handwritten notecards, torn pages of magazines, and computer printouts. It had ceased to be a useful reference book, and had become a recipe graveyard. My job was to somehow make sense of it all. And after several days of covering the kitchen table with recipes, making stacks of faded magazine and newspaper clippings that referenced similar food groups, I presented my mother with the yellow binder, now able to open and close, as well as a separate dessert collection, my own idea. Using an old photo album, I stuffed dessert recipes in the pockets, and tried to organize them by cookies, cakes and pies. Now that there were two functioning ...

J.J. was a skinny kid who moved to our neighborhood when I was in middle school. He was my age, but a lot shorter than me (most of the boys were). More importantly, he played basketball in his driveway. For a few glorious summers, there were enough kids in my neighborhood to have big games of basketball, dodge ball, and hide-and-seek. So one afternoon I took my basketball over to J.J.'s house and rang the doorbell. "A bunch of us are playing basketball at the end of the street. Wanna play?" After that he became a regular in our pick-up games, which we played most nights in the summer and every weekend. We didn't know each other very well, as we went to different schools, but my parents liked his parents, he was nice, and really good at basketball. Perfect qualities for a neighborhood kid. And because he was so much shorter than me, I never had a crush on him. When we reached high school, J.J. moved back to Milwaukee to live with his biological father, and I di...

(published in MARY: A Journal of New Writing, Spring 2012) "Do we just go in?" Kevin asked. "I think so?" I said, unsure, as we slowly walked up the brick steps. The front door was open behind a glass storm door, and we looked in. A woman standing in the kitchen looked up at me, and I smiled and awkwardly gestured to the door. "Come on in!" she shouted, and when we walked in we saw two women sitting on a couch, another sitting at a table behind a cash box, and stuff everywhere. "Everything's for sale, upstairs, downstairs, and basement. Let us know if you have any questions," the one behind the cash box told us. Kevin and I looked at each other, trying to act like this all felt completely normal and not weird at all, to be walking through a [presumably deceased] person's house, looking at price tags. We were really only there to see if we could find an old chair to add to our mismatched dining set, completely furnished wit...

“The fish is cooked really well. And the mushrooms have a perfect blend of oil and salt - not too much of either.” Our waitress beamed when I said this, and hurried off to bring the next course. My husband Kevin and I looked at each other across the small candlelit table and waited until the waitress was out of earshot before laughing. I wrote a few notes in my notebook, sitting conspicuously next to my plate, and Kevin took a few pictures with his iPhone. We were at a special, sold-out, reservations-only chef’s tasting at a new bistro about to open in Jamaica Plain. A glowing review from an influential food critic would probably help the future of the restaurant. For $10 each, we sampled 8 plates of savory and sweet creations. From candied brussel sprouts to rabbit ragu, to honey caviar and hazelnut mousse, we felt totally in…which meant everyone else was out. And literally, too. The doors were locked and passers-by peered in the window at the cozy arrangement of tables and coupl...

I have this unrealistic idea about myself, which is that I can probably do anything I set out to do. Of course, our parents and teachers wanted us to believe this, but most of us know it's not really true. Most of us. So one day while watching a reality show about fancy cake bakers, I thought, "How hard can that be? I can do that." I purchased a good cookbook , a few supplies, and set out to make the first fancy cupcake: a simple pink top with a black bow. On Sunday I baked vanilla cupcakes and whipped up a large batch of white chocolate ganache. On Monday I spread the ganache over the tops of the cupcakes. And last night, I applied the icing, using a syrup I made with boiling water and apricot jam. The book strongly favors purchasing ready-made fondant, as the consistency is hard to get just right. And since I'm a beginner, and had made everything else, I was happy to buy a box of 4 packages of fondant, already colored. All I had to do was roll it out, cut, and st...

 As many of you know, I've been lucky enough to have a close relationship with all of my grandparents. As some of you know, we recently lost my grandfather, a man I truly admired and loved. I've published various pieces about him before (see links to the right for "What I Think My Grandmother is Thinking," "Mt. Auburn," and "The Man I Know"), but this weekend I was honored to write a new piece, one to deliver at his memorial service. Below is the eulogy I read at the service. I was limited to 3 minutes, but those of you who knew Grampy know that I could have spoken for days. I may later post the entire list of 101 Life Lessons mentioned in my eulogy, and I may later be able to compose a new piece to reflect on this loss. For now, my tired and grieving heart just wants to rest. Enjoy remembering this wonderful life, and feel free to share your own memories. You are also welcome to read his obituary , an impressive testament to a life well li...