When I work the machines at the women’s gym in my neighborhood, I have a bird’s eye view of the floor where aerobic classes are held. One of those classes I’ve had the pleasure of watching was belly dancing. Some of the participants wore coin-rimmed hip scarves so their movements were enhanced both visually and auditorily.

Since this was the gym and not a contest or performance, the women were of all shapes, sizes and abilities. And you know what? They looked gorgeous.

Now, I’m not one who normally gawks at other women, but this was different. Here was a group of women looking to keep their hearts healthy, to tone their muscles, learn something new and have some fun doing it. Some of the women on machine level with me, left their machines to try the moves along with the class. The sensuality of the moves and the music was compelling.

Exotic. Natural. Feminine.

Forbidden.

Because of all that, there’s an air mystery surrounding the dance. In fact, even the age and origin of belly dancing is a mystery. Some professional belly dancers, when viewing Egyptian hieroglyphs from 5,000 years ago, are able to “see the dance’ moves as they go from one image to another.

Though that is a matter of interpretation and not proof, there is evidence that the dance has been around for at least several hundred years. This evidence comes from Europeans of the time who traveled to Egypt, Lebanon, Morocco, and other exotic locations, then described their experiences, including dance moves which we now recognize as belly dancing.

Originally a more traditional dance than it is today, belly dancing was taught by mothers to their daughters, generation after generation, and was used during birthing rituals In other words, it seems it was not originally meant to seduce men but to prepare women for the rigors of childbirth.

Consider it ancient Lamaze – only better.

Belly Dancing helps work muscles a woman uses to help nature along during the delivery of her child. It’s like getting ready for a marathon. You wouldn’t take on a 5K without some prep work would you? Neither would a woman from ancient times take on childbirth without prepping from child to adulthood in the form of Belly Dancing.

Belly Dancing embraces femininity, pays tribute to the feminine form, uniqueness and abilities.

Traditional belly dancers did not bare their midriffs. Instead, they wore long flowing, layered gowns with a hip scarf that accentuated the sensual movements there. It wasn’t until Belly Dancing was introduced to the West, that a more ‘burlesque’ style of belly dance was introduced. It is that form of belly dance – and all the sexual, arousing tension it brings – that has become the norm today.

And it’s the sensuality, the full body infusion with the dance that has made belly dancing one of the West’s newer fitness crazes. And not a bad one at that. The women who practice this feel beautiful. I happen to be of the belief that a woman who feels beautiful IS beautiful. I want that for every woman. Every girl. To embrace her body regardless of shape or size.

As long as she’s fit – read that, “healthy” – she should be proud of what and who she is. I think belly dancing gives a person confidence as well as a great workout.

If this has interested you as much as it has interested me, you might want to have a look at these Belly Dancing “lessons” I located on YouTube. I am convinced practicing along with these videos each day will provide not only fun but results in a heart health, muscle tone and flexibility. Try it out. I’m going to. I may even buy one of those stunning clinky hip scarves.

Belly dancing 1 of 4

Belly dancing 2 of 4

Belly Dancing 3 of 4

Belly Dancing 4 of 4

Twenty-six years ago, this month, Bob Geldof organized, galvanized and revolutionized the music industry in a way that barreled news of famine in Africa into the hearts – and living rooms – of more than a billion people around the globe. LIVE AID was a phenomenal feat of tenacity, ego, determination and compassion. It helped.

But it didn’t solve the problem. In fact, the problem repeats itself.

I woke this morning unsure what I felt like having for breakfast. I checked the pantry. Checked the fridge. Chose an apple, put it back. Chose oatmeal. Changed my mind. Poured a second cup of coffee instead. I showered, put special conditioner in my hair – after all, it should be used weekly for bounce and shine. I picked up my iTouch and checked my email, played a couple rounds of Angry Birds.  Then I turned on my laptop to see what was going on locally and around the world, to check new status updates and tweets, to see what the weather will be since we’re supposed to hold a  yard sale today – selling our overflow to others willing to part with spare change.

And then I saw this image from The London Evening Post:

Famine has once again claimed the the weakest among us. Children. Babies. Animals. The elderly. Parents cannot provide for their families because they themselves have nothing to give. Severe drought has killed crops and livestock, leaving these people with nothing. And then, to compound the horror, militants prevent aid from reaching them.

US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton released this statement about the situation:

Press Statement

Hillary Rodham Clinton
Secretary of State

Washington, DC

July 20, 2011

---

The United States is deeply concerned by the humanitarian emergency in the Horn of Africa and today’s announcement by the United Nations that a famine is underway in parts of Somalia. The United States is the largest bilateral donor of emergency assistance to the eastern Horn of Africa. We have already responded with over $431 million in food and non-food emergency assistance this year alone.

But it is not enough — the need is only expected to increase and more must be done by the United States and the international community. That is why today the United States government is providing an additional $28 million in aid for people in Somalia and for Somali refugees in Kenya.

The eastern Horn of Africa is prone to chronic food insecurity which has been exacerbated by a two-year drought. Crops have dried up, livestock have died, and food prices have been skyrocketing. In Somalia, twenty years without a central government and the relentless terrorism by al-Shabaab against its own people has turned an already severe situation into a dire one that is only expected to get worse. Even so, we remain cautiously optimistic that al-Shabaab will permit unimpeded international assistance in famine struck areas.

The United States — in close coordination with the international community — is working to assist more than 11 million people in Djibouti, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia, who are in dire need of assistance. To anticipate growing needs, the United States government has worked with our partners over the last year to pre-position food in the region, increase funding for early warning systems, and strengthen non-food assistance in the feeding, health, water and sanitation sectors. In addition to emergency assistance, this administration’s Feed the Future program is working to break the cycle of hunger once and for all by addressing the root causes of hunger and food insecurity through innovative agricultural advances.

But the United States cannot solve the crisis in the Horn alone. All donors in the international community must commit to taking additional steps to tackle both immediate assistance needs and strengthen capacity in the region to respond to future crises.

PRN: 2011/1213

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I don’t know how we can help these people and my heart aches because of it. But I know we can be more appreciative – and respectful – for what we have. We have options. Choices. Farmers markets, supermarkets, organic, non-organic. Gluten-free, low sodium, no trans-fats. Food – meat, vegetables, fruit, snacks – by the pound. It’s all much more expensive than it was not too long ago. But it’s there, convenient, safe and plentiful. The least we can do is take only what we need and give to those we know who don’t have.

I’m not trying to preach to anyone. I’m just trying to feel less guilty for having as much as I do while complaining it’s not enough.

I don’t know how ladylike this is, but I’m excited and want to shout it out to the world. One of my stories is a finalist in the Killer Nashville Claymore Contest.

Judging was based on the first 50 pages of each submission, and ten  were chosen for the semi-finals. The winner is offered a publishing contract and I wish all of my fellow finalists the best of luck. I’m happy just to final.

Here’s the announcement:

July 25, 2011

Heartfelt Well Wishes to everyone who entered this year’s Claymore Award contest for the best beginning (up to 50 pages) of an unpublished novel not currently under contract. There were many excellent manuscripts, and it was difficult to choose just ten finalists, but the preliminary judges have made their choices.

Congratulations to the 2011 Claymore Award Top Ten Finalists (in alphabetical order by title):

Baron R. Birtcher (Rain Dogs)
Craig Faustus Buck (Go Down Hard)
Bryan Camp (Where the Dead Remain)
Joan Lipinsky Cochran (The Yiddish Gangster’s Daughter)
Judith Dailey (Animal, Vegetable, Murder)
Debora Dale (Canyon Road)
Jessica Ferguson (A Bad Guy Forever)
Frank Jenkins (An Embarrassment of Riches)
Doc Macomber (Riff Raff)
E. Joan Sims (A.K.A. Love)

Best Regards,

Killer Nashville Team

The events in Norway are horrific, heartbreaking and incomprehensible. How a person can hold that much hate, contempt, disregard… I don’t even know what to call it… is unimaginable. Our hearts go out to the victims and their families as we try to understand how one person can feel justified in claiming the lives of so many.

Of course, it calls to mind the attacks of 9/11, 3/11 and others here in the States and around the world. It also reminds me of the Virginia Tech Massacre and how that assailant vied for attention – and got it – long after he’d been killed.

I can’t help wonder why news outlets feel the need to air the ramblings and rantings of attackers like these. The same happened/happens with Islamic terrorist videos. A new one comes out and it’s translated into every language, aired on TV and radio, uploaded to the internet and printed in newspapers, giving voice to these criminals. And now, the Norway attacker – whose name along with the other’s will not be mentioned here – wants to use his time in court as a platform to explain his actions.

Part of me wants to know why he did this while part of me doesn’t want to grant him the opportunity to tell us.

Of course, the public has the right to know what goes on inside the minds of people like this. We need to understand what causes a person to act this way so we can recognize the pattern should it appear in our lives. We also need to know what, if anything, we can do to prevent things from going this far.

But… I also feel the voices of these people should be silenced. That we should not give them the attention they so deeply crave. To deny them of that attention is, perhaps, the worst punishment of all. And that, I should add, is what the Norwegian courts are doing as of now by having a closed-door hearing for this man.

As you can see, I’m torn. So I wonder… how do you feel about this? Should murders – regardless of the size of their attacks – be permitted to share their story, their  rationale, with the world or should they be given only a small ‘audience’ of judge and jury?

Tomorrow is my 17th wedding anniversary, which means today marks 17 years since I frantically worked to finish the last of the silk floral centerpieces for our reception. We could have gotten them from the florist, but that’s what I did “on the side” at that time. Silk floral arranging. Poor hubby had to take them, five at a time, to the catering hall – which was about 30 minutes in each direction.

Weather the week prior to our wedding was about the same as it is now – typical NY July with a bit of elevated heat and pollen index thrown in for fun. Thermostats read 102 in the shade.

We’d planned a whole day of partying. Pre-wedding portraits and lunch with family and close friends at our house well before the 7pm ceremony. Neighbors stopped by and even our pets posed for some pictures.

Our grandmothers were there as well. One from each side. And we put those beautiful ladies to good use. We asked them to be our witnesses and they eagerly agreed, each taking a turn to sign our marriage certificate. Precious memories.

After lunch at our house, we headed out for our formal wedding portraits at the EAB Plaza – which was a corporate office with an amazing arboretum in the lobby where brides often went for a bit of the exotic. Our plan after that was to have our wedding ceremony on the grounds of the catering hall, overlooking the Long Island Sound where cool breezes would be welcome.

That didn’t happen.

Why? Because NY air doesn’t like to stay hot and heavy for long. It likes to cool itself off. On its terms. And so, as we left the house and headed out for the start of our festivities, the sky went black… and I mean black… and then the rain came down so hard we had to pull over several times on our way to the arboretum. When we finally got there, it took a bit of coaxing to get everyone out of the cars and into the place, but we did it and those are some of the best moments of the day. The pictures there still make me smile because when I look at them, I still hear the laughter and screams as we darted through driving rain into the place – in gowns and heels and tuxedos. Such fun. Messy. But fun.

And then we headed to the catering hall. At this point, the rain had ebbed to a mere monsoon and we were able to plod along at a safe and respectable pace. Until the lead car – our family car that held both sets up parents, siblings and spouses and our grandmothers – pulled over. It seems the rain found its way into the lounge area of the car and our families, holding champagne flutes above their heads, caught it before it fell into their laps. I guess they used the ice bucket, too, because somehow, we continued on and they were dry – mostly – when we arrived.

Once dry and inside we took some portraits – hubby is a wedding photographer after all.  For some photos, we looked out of a gorgeous wall of windows – toward the Sound. Toward row after row of decorated white chairs sitting empty. Wet. Lonely. We took a moment to mourn our lovely outdoor wedding, then shrugged it off. This was NY after all. On the Long Island Sound. Do you have any idea what kind of feast mosquitoes would have had on our guests?

It all worked out for the best. Lots of friends. Lots of fun. Lots of memories and lots of love.

What went wrong on your wedding day? And did it really matter much after all?

I’ll admit it, I’m not a fan of public breast-feeding. There. I said it. Now, does that mean I look on with disdain at women who publicly breastfeed? Hardly. I simply wouldn’t choose to do it. In fact, I was a formula mom from day one and have no complaints or regrets about it. Every woman is different and has to make the choice that best suits her and her family.

Of course, I understand that science feels breast milk is best, and since I am not a scientist or doctor, I wouldn’t dream of arguing the point. All I know is my formula-fed daughter is smart, strong, happy and healthy. I couldn’t ask for more and so I still believe in the power of choice.

Having said all that, I wonder how many people have noticed that there’s been an active campaign in this country to (more than) encourage new mothers to breastfeed their babies. Hospitals have gone as far as to block formula companies from providing new moms with free samples. That’s how I obtained the first case of formula for my daughter.

Well, it seems that campaign has taken off in new, bizarre directions, now targeting not just the new moms of today but also future moms… like moms who won’t be moms for another fifteen years or so. Like future moms who have yet to reach puberty.

What, you must be asking, am I talking about? I’m talking about “bebe Gloton” or the Breast Milk Baby, which is a doll. Yes. A doll for your little girl to play with. This doll comes with a “magic top” that your little girl will put on, and this magic top has special appliques placed just so over her not-yet-there-breasts and when she holds this baby doll up to the applique, it connects with a sensor in the doll’s mouth that causes it to suckle. Yes. Your baby girl will be “nursing” her baby doll.

See here:

I find this to be obnoxious and highly inappropriate. I see it as pushing children into adulthood before they’ve had a chance to be children. I see it as forcing a “choice” on them at an impressionable age, an age where they not only do not understand their future options but shouldn’t even have to be aware of them. And I see it as setting them up for failure if they happen to grow into adults who cannot or choose not to breastfeed. What’s worse, is the statement on the manufacturers website that “God supports the Breast Milk Baby”.

So, I have to ask. If you have children of baby-doll age or know someone who does, would this toy make it to your short list… or to any shopping list? Or are you as turned off by this as I am?

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EDIT – I just found a post about the doll at Topless Robot. I thought the post and the comments were quite interesting. Maybe you will, too. Find it here: Topless Robot

It’s Monday again – one month later.  Time to shake up the muse.

Using these five words:

dance

plate

surf

garage

dog

Tell us a story.

More than a decade ago, an entire generation was introduced to the magical, wondrous world of Harry Potter. 

It was a world full of friendships, hard lessons and evil.

Harry’s innocence, though it fought valiantly to hang on, was lost very early. The tragic attack on his world, his family and others, left him scarred – physically and emotionally.

A decade ago, another scar, a real scar in the real world, was left on American soil and in the hearts of many around the world. 9/11 changed the perception of adults. It changed our sense of security. The collective sense of insecurity became pervasive, and could not be hidden from our children.

Years ago – a generation ago – adults worked to absorb and hide concern and fear so children wouldn’t have to know about danger in the world. Children could be children – innocent, naïve, oblivious. Happy and free from worry, free from the burdens of adulthood, of evil.

But, 9/11 brought that evil into focus. There was no hiding it. Our children felt every breath of it. And while they could not ignore it, many of them were too young to process it, to understand it.

With Harry Potter books and movies running along the same time as al Qaeda gained steam, the children were able to give fear a home. They saw Voldemort as evil while we saw bin Laden as evil. They watched this fictitious evil grow stronger, be fought, grow stronger yet again. And they watched Harry, and all the other ‘good’ people, as they struggled to counter the terrorist acts of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It was much the same as the West struggled to beat back, contain and defeat bin Laden and al Qaeda. While this real-life process will take a lot more than a wave of a wand or a spoken “Latin” phrase, the connection is clear.

Now, a decade later, Bin laden is dead. Voldemort has been obliterated. And while the destruction, pain and devastation remain, so does hope. Our children have grown. They’re no longer wide-eyed and innocent. They are now street smart and educated. They’re young adults coming into their own, recognizing good and evil. Understanding where each rests in society, and feeling confident that they can overcome it. They can fight back. They witnessed the most horrific act of terrorism in US history. They witnessed the destruction of the fictitious world they love. And they witnessed, “19 Years Later” as it says in the book, how even through horror, even through death and destruction, life goes on.

There is no line between winning and losing. That area is blurred and wide. Winning is measured by love, friendship and integrity, while loss occurs when there is no hope.

Harry Potter will forever be a force in the minds of an entire generation. It thrilled. It frightened. It stirred. I will miss hearing about the newest book coming out and the newest film being released. I will miss the excitement in my daughter’s young eyes as she discussed the symbolism she saw in the stories. I will miss the years of toy wands, wizard-cape costumes and witch’s brooms. A lifetime – my child’s lifetime – was shared with Harry Potter. I watched her grow and mature along with the characters. The actors.

I am sad to see it end, but I am happy we had it at the time we did. Besides giving children a fantasy to explore, it gave them books to read and ideas to debate and exchange. In the dark shadow of 9/11, Harry Potter offered hope, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Thank you Harry, Hermione, Ron and all the others. Most especially, thank you J.K. Rowling.

I recently came upon some photographs I took at the 2008 NY Botanical Gardens Orchid Show and was reminded how amazing these flowers are. In fact, I posted about my visit to the Gardens and included photos of amazing orchids of various shapes and colors. Some of them are simply stunning. Some, quite odd. If you’d like to see that post, you can find it here – Orchids

Anyway, after looking at the pictures, I did some research on orchids, wondering about those odd shapes and colors. I learned quite a lot.

Some orchids, it seems, have evolved to mimic the shape of female wasps, thus luring male wasps to them with ease. On the surface, this sounds like a science class, but to me it is so much more.

It’s romance. It’s horror. It’s physiological and psychological manipulation, self-serving behavior, and eugenics all rolled into one. It’s the be-all of Amazonian dominance.

Let’s start at the beginning…

When male and female wasps mate, they produce female offspring. Females, when they reproduce without a male – because, yes, they can do that – produce male offspring. But, these orchids are so lovely, plentiful and submissive that male wasps often find them more attractive than their real-life counterparts.

I think sex toys and internet porn. No back-talk, no “nagging”, no mother-in-law issues and no not-now-I’ve-got-a-headache speeches. Oh. Wait. That’s a human thing…

Still…

Orchids attract wasps for their own self-serving reasons. Reproduction. By luring these boys to them, pollination is sure to occur. That’s great for the orchid, not so great for the wasp. As these boys consummate the joining with their lovely flower, they exert more energy than they should and lose body mass.

Sex, done right, is quite a workout even for wasps. Apparently.

For your viewing pleasure… if you’re into this sort of thing…

Here are mating wasps…

Photo copyright Randy Harrison 2008

And here is a male wasp ‘mating’ with an orchid…

Photo copyright - Rod Peakall 2007

Orchids benefit twice from this mating trickery. Not only are they assured their species will live on – as if an orchid has the capacity to be ‘assured’ – but while males are mating with them, females are left to reproduce on their own. And when that happens, remember, more males wasps are created. And that guarantees the continuance of the orchid.

No wonder we admire orchids so much. They’re self-confident, exotic, sexy, and in total control of their present and their future. If I didn’t mind setting down roots somewhere and having creepy crawlies having their way with me, I might not mind being an orchid.

Ah, to be so alluring…

Next time you gaze at a stunningly odd-shaped orchid, admire the colors veined through it, its thick petals, proud stature, try to keep in mind it is a wonder of nature and not, no matter what you’ve read here, simply a wasp-sized blow-up doll.

From word one, writers are told, “show don’t tell”. It’s a method of letting the reader see and feel the character’s emotions, their wants, their needs. It’s not an easy bit of craft to master since “telling” is so much faster – and easier – than showing. To ‘show’ means to get into the character’s skin. To feel what they feel and describe it in a way that will, hopefully, elicit that same feeling in the reader.

Show don’t tell. It makes sense in fiction but what about reality?

Sure, few of us would refuse flowers and candy on Valentine’s Day. And I doubt any of us would object to a gift and gushy card on our birthday. But… isn’t that a form of telling? Wouldn’t you rather wake on a morning other than Valentine’s Day or your birthday and find the laundry washed, dried and folded? Or the empty milk container rinsed, recycled and replaced by a full container with a fair expiration date?

When you think back on special moments, consider this… are they special because of what someone said to you or because of what someone did to you, with you, or for you… without being asked? It’s not that we shouldn’t say I love you, or I need you, or any other endearment, but that we should say them and show them, now, while we can, so that later, if events take away the opportunity to show those we love how much we love, they will already know.

I thought of this today as I drove my daughter to her volunteer position at a living history museum. I blasted the radio as I drove home alone, singing along with some classic songs. Then one came on that I’ve heard many times but didn’t ‘get’ until today. As a writer, I’ve learned a lot from songs – especially how to break a story down to its core. I’ve admired the way songwriters can tell an entire, passionate story of love and heartbreak in three minutes or less. Today, however, I learned something else… that showing the feelings of a character, or a real live person, takes much more than words.

Little Caylee Anthony caught our attention in July of 2008 when she was reported missing. We all watched the  news, hoping to hear something good – that this toddler had been found, unharmed, and returned to her loving family. Instead, we heard lies from her mother. Lies about a baby sitter, lies about a job. So many lies we couldn’t help but believe this mother was involved in the child’s disappearance.

We remained connected to the story. And then the news broke. A skull was located in a swampy area less than a mile from the Anthony home.

We all ‘knew’ Casey killed her little girl. We all knew Casey was a habitual liar and a party girl. A twenty-something saddled with a child who threw off her groove.

And now, as long into Casey’s trial as Caylee had been missing, we’re hearing closing arguments. I’ve watched some of the trial each day. I’ve nearly gagged on some of the absurd notions the defense has asked us to digest. The entire defense sounds like one Casey Anthony lie after another. And what lies they were. She made up people. She gave them jobs, illnesses, families, homes. She thought on the fly sometimes. Had other lies planned. She wove a tail a best-selling author would envy.

But there was one difference.

In fiction, we hope our readers will suspend disbelief as our stories sweep them into another world for three or four hundred pages. Casey’s fiction, with all its twists and turns, is meant to convince without question. In her fiction, fiction and truth overlap, meld, become a cohesive tale so intricately woven, one cannot help wonder how and why she lies so easily.

From my seat on the sofa, watching this trial, I have no doubt she’s guilty. The defense threw out a scenario of this child’s death but failed to follow up with details of what happened to her little body. If she drowned in the family pool as they said, and 911 was not called… what happened next? Where did they put her body? Instead of telling us this vital detail, they’ve blamed Casey’s father, her brother, her mother. Everyone else is a suspect.

But a suspect in what?

They said the child accidentally drowned in the pool. There’s nothing more to it than that except that they panicked and did not call for help and then disposed of Caylee’s body improperly. What is improper and how does it relate to how little Caylee was found?

It’s easy to question the defense – and the prosecution, I suppose – from my living room. But, if I were on the jury, hearing only what the jury is permitted to hear, would I feel the same way?

I don’t think so.

Just the closing arguments yesterday were enough to put doubt in my mind. This is a capital case, with the death penalty as punishment. You only vote guilty if the prosecution proves its case “beyond a reasonable doubt”.

I ‘know’ Casey Anthony committed a horrendous crime against her innocent little girl.  The prosecution, IMO, has presented a solid case proving that. But if I were a juror in this trial – unable to discuss the case with people I know, unable to listen as pundits hash out the details on TV – I’d have to raise my hand for “not guilty”.

What say you?

Writers are normally solitary creatures. We love interaction with people and we love sharing but for the most part, we love our quiet time more. There has to be balance, of course, but what’s a writer to do when she’s forced out of her comfy little cubby and into the frantic and crowded world of NETWORKING?!

It’s enough to make the muse cower in the dark recesses of the mind.

This week – tomorrow in fact – this writer will be attending her first ever Romance Writer’s Conference. There will be workshops galore, introductions, re-connections, pitches, midnight bazaars, dinner with new friends and old, drinks, networking and tired feet.

I’m looking forward to it but I’m also intimidated. I want to take it all in without feeling overwhelmed. I want to go slowly, pull back and truly see the community of which I am a part.

I’ve been writing all my life and until recently, thought of it as lonely work. Most rewarding and enjoyable, but lonely. Over the past few months, however, I’ve met real live writers, while previously, I’d only met other writers ‘virtually’. I’m connected now and after this week, I will be connected even more.

Tomorrow I will meet up with people I’ve only known through IM’s, discussion boards or emails. I cannot wait. I’m excited and terrified and wonder if there’s a story in this.

Since in my previous post I said I’d look toward the positive, my only worry is whether my online friends will like me in person. Oh. And whether I packed the right shoes…  if the dresses are appropriate… if my pitch is ready for prime time… whether my hair looks okay… if I paid the electric bill… whether the cat-sitter remember to…

I’m a worrier. I’ve always been. When plans are being made, my mind immediately thinks, “‘what if” and each additional “what if” worry I come up with plays off the one before, becoming darker, more… worrisome.

A long time ago, I convinced myself that worrying beforehand helps prepare me for whatever might go wrong. Instead, it only makes me worry more. I have found, in all my years preparing for the worst, I have often failed to enjoy the best. That undercurrent of ‘what if’ is always there, pulling at me, reminding me that at any moment, the bottom can come out from under me. The interesting thing is that it never has. In all my years of worrying, my worries were all for naught.

Of course, bad things happen sometimes but those bad things are usually things I hadn’t planned for or even considered. The best-laid plans…

Worrying is like poison ivy. Pervasive. Toxic. Deceptively attractive.

Have you ever seen poison ivy in Autumn? If I didn’t know what it was, I’d say it’s quite attractive.

Worry, or planning ahead, is deceptively attractive as well because it creates in the worrier a false sense of preparedness.

Why do I compare worrying and poison ivy? Because last night I noticed a red blistery patch on my arm and went into panic mode. I just ‘knew’ I would wake this morning covered head to toe in an unbearably itchy rash. I ‘knew’ my cats had the poisoned oils on their fur because I’d cuddled them. I ‘knew’ my daughter would have it. My husband. I ‘knew’ I’d spend the next year washing every inch of my home – all the clothes, all the upholstered furniture, all the carpets, over and over – reinfecting myself as I handled items with this toxic oil that can, apparently, linger for five years if left untouched.

You know what really happened? Nothing.

Before bed, I used Benadryl ointment and I took one of my trusty antihistamine pills. This morning, I woke with a smaller, less red, less blistery patch on my arm. Yes. I have to wash clothes but it seems the poison ivy – if that’s even what I had/have – is much more contained than I had feared. At least for now.

I’ve used a lot of energy worrying about things that can go wrong. At this point in my life, I’d like to start concentrating what can go right. It’s really time to use positive ‘what if’ questions for myself and negative ‘what if’ questions for the torture of my characters.

Have you ever found yourself worried about something that never materialized or wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be?

btw – here’s a pretty good slide show of poison ivy so if you come upon it, you won’t have to worry that you won’t recognize it.

In case you’re still worried… here’s a good one page article about poison ivy:

Everything You Wanted to Know About Poison Ivy but Were Afraid To Ask

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Baby raccoons!

Just the other day, I told y’all about the raccoons in my neighbor’s attic crawl space. Well, we’ve been dealing with raccoons in our attics for a few years now. In late winter/early spring, female raccoons look for a safe place to den. “Safe”, meaning away from male raccoons who resent the babies because while mama nurses them, she won’t mate. So… quite simply, baby raccoons are not safe around a horny male and mama has to hide them.

That’s another reason I don’t like the idea of calling in animal control. The mom works so hard to keep her babies safe. That’s nature at it’s most basic and beautiful.

But, these raccoons are rather fertile and while I saw two adolescent raccoons last week, I have now seen Mom and three toddlers who are still so small, they’re unable to navigate their way home.

This morning, at 6, which is late for them to go home, I heard all this chattering from outside. What did I see? Mama raccoon on the roof across the alley, coaxing her little cubs up the drainpipe where they would then tightrope along the roof’s edge for a couple of yards, then wiggle down to the awning and into their dark and cozy den – which happens to be my neighbor’s attic crawl space.

The chattering was the mom telling them to hurry, I’m sure. It was also the babies grunts and whines as they tried and tried to do as mom said, only to fail and have her lead them down instead. Where they wound up is anyone’s guess. The babies are at that awkward stage – too big for her to carry home and too small to get home on their own.

I don’t want them in anyone’s attic and I’d rather they live away from our neighborhood but… I find myself now concerned about their safety and hoping they’ll soon get that upper body strength necessary to find their way back “home”.

For your viewing pleasure… this is what I watched from my window this morning:

It was just over a year ago when my 95 year old Sicilian grandmother passed away. I blogged all about her and her impact on my life here. But something I don’t recall mentioning was her cooking. And man, could that woman cook.

I guess I took it for granted that she would always be around to make her exotic, healthy, quick and complicated meals for us. I mean, for my entire life, she was there, living in the same house. The aroma of her food wafting through the rooms. Eventually, the ingredients and steps for some of her signature dishes were etched on my brain but they will never quite taste, smell or be like hers.

More than a few of those are still in my head, not on paper. It wasn’t until I read Christine Ashworth’s blog, Artichokes are Silly, that I realized I should write these recipes down so my daughter has them and can pass them down to her children, proudly saying they belonged to her great-grandmother.

To honor that decision, I’m posting one recipe here. I promised Christine I would share it but I have to caution you, there’s one ingredient that cannot be duplicated. One ingredient that adds depth to the flavor and memories to the experience. That ingredient is grandma’s love. Which I miss terribly but am so grateful to have had for as long as I did.

Enjoy this. It’s a lot of work but worth it.

Stuffed Artichokes

Ingredients:

three artichokes – trimmed and washed

1 1/2 cups unseasoned breadcrumbs

1/2 cup grated cheese (I use equal parts of parmesan and romano but you can use your favorite one)

3 garlic cloves diced, or 1 teaspoon garlic powder or 1/2 teaspoon pressed garlic in tube

1/2 – 1 teaspoon crushed dried parsely

1 tablespoon capers (some brine is fine)

black pepper to taste

4 cups vegetable or chicken broth

Secret ingredients:

1 – 1 1/2 teaspoons sundried tomatoe paste (Amore brand is the best, IMO)
and
1 1/2 teaspoons olive paste (if you can’t find this, it can be omitted. It just gives an extra flavor zip but won’t be missed if you haven’t had it before)

Directions:

Cut thick stems from bottom of artichokes until they can sit flat on platter.

Cut about 1-inch from top of artichokes and discard. Use scissors to snip and discard all sharp leaf tips.

Gently spread leaves open and rinse under running water until cleaned – just spread leaves as you rinse so tiny fruit flies and such are rinsed away. Disgusting, I know, but I once found a live caterpillar in an artichoke as I was cleaning it. Better then, than as I was stuffing or eating it. :-S Fill pot with water, invert artichokes and let soak to clean.

Drain artichokes.

In a large bowl, combine rest of ingredients except for the broth. Using about 1/4 teaspoon (more for larger leaves, less for smaller leaves) ‘stuff’ each leaf with crumb mixture. Breading should sit at the bottom of each leaf. Do not overstuff or it will become too dry.

Place artichokes in large dutch oven, pour in enough broth to rise about 2 inches from bottom of artichokes, reserve remaining broth to add as needed. Bring to a boil. Lower to a light simmer, cover and cook for 40 minutes or until leaves separate easily from globe. Be sure to check level of broth regularly. If too much evaporates, either add more broth or some water (water will obviously reduce flavor so make extra broth your first choice)

Using a large ladle, scoop each artichoke with broth into a bowl.

To eat – pull each leaf and eat only pulpy bottom part with breading. When you reach the sharper inner leaves (usually bowed toward the center like a bud), pull them off as one clump and discard. Remove choke with spoon and enjoy the ‘heart’ or very bottom of the artichoke, which is always our favorite. Another favorite part of this is the scrumptious taste of crisp Italian bread dipped in the broth. Delicious.

I hope these directions were clear. I do this by memory and so I know the ins and outs of it but have never detailed it for others who may not be as familiar. There is a way to remove the choke prior to stuffing these, but I don’t know it. If anyone else does, please share.

Nothing would make me happier than if some of you make these part of your holiday traditions. I know, my grandmother would be all smiles in heaven.

Enjoy!