Here’s my favorite appetizer ever. It has no name. It’s easy and requires use of a broiler for less than five minutes and some simple assembly. Everyone loves it. Even kids.

INGREDIENTS

French baguette, sliced (our local Panera will do it for me)

goat cheese (don’t go ewww, just get it)

fresh rosemary (or dried, i prefer fresh)

walnut halves

honey

DIRECTIONS:

Preheat the broiler - on low if that’s an option.

Place all the slices of baguette on an ungreased cookie sheet; they can be touching eachother

Add a few crumbles of goat cheese to each one, along with a few rosemary leaves and a walnut half on top

It looks nicest not all smooshed down (technical term) but if the walnut half is sort of in the goat cheese it will stay put.

Broil for a few minutes until the bread is a bit browned. The goat cheese does not melt down but it will get soft.

Heat the honey in the microwave - in the bottle is fine usually if you remove the lid.

Drizzle some warm honey on each baguette.

Great hot - still great warm - and only slight less great at room temperature.

Enjoy!!

This was one of those post written quickly and without much forethought. Gee I wish I could do that more often! It was also the post to which I received my record number of comments - a whopping 33, and the only post nominated for a Perfect Post award. So you can see why it’s one of my favorites — it was one of YOUR favorites!

After this I’ll be back with a “live” update and hopefully much more blogging in 2008.

Happy New Year!

The Freshman

On the first day of high school my son found his way, and I lost my breath. I hoped the cold rush that permeated my chest, throat and limbs was because I hadn’t yet had coffee; but I knew better.

I also knew the feelings that washed over me were not because the building he strode toward was big enough to house multiple air craft carriers. It wasn’t because the metal doors looked like they could swallow him whole. It wasn’t because he walked among beings that looked strangely like adults — with boobs, beards, swaggers, swiveling hips and caramel mochachinos.

As he walked away from the car, he became increasingly more absorbed in a living Seurat. The composition, as a whole, was magnificent. Separately it was a sea of indiscernible, colorful, teenage dots. I will never forget how it looked as he became part of the big pocket, flip flop and muffin top landscape. In a strange way, it was strikingly beautiful.

I was unsettled not due to the vastness or the newness. I was awed because he fit right into it. He belonged. It’s where he is supposed to be. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s all good. At 14 + years old, 5 foot 8 inches tall, with broad shoulders and a stocky build, he is once again and at long last, right where he is supposed to be. And, after a year and a half of treading lightly in shallow waters – he dived right in. I was the one who held my breath.

I wonder if he hadn’t leaned over and let me kiss him goodbye, if this self-proclaimed hardened heart would have cried the whole way home. Probably.

All I could think of that was in that short 5 minute ride was that in four years I’ll be dropping him off at college and not picking him up at 3pm. And how the hell am I supposed to get ready for THAT? Then it will be just me and my daughter at home and then she’ll go to college and I’d be left alone with dogs and a dishwasher that probably only needs to be run once a week. Now that seems delightful, but something tells me it feels quite dreadful. Someone should really re-think this focus on education.

And then I got a grip. He’s fourteen. And she’s eleven.

The biggest waste of time in my adult life was the time I spent looking to and planning for the future and not living completely in the moment. And while seven thousand of my closest friends have already been kind enough to tell me that the next four years are going to fly by, I need only to look back for a second to be able to look forward with a slow and deliberate gaze.

Four years might feel like it goes quickly, but every day brings a myriad of experiences and emotions. Each one is worthy of consideration, acknowledgement and careful placement in our lives. If you experience life and live it minute by minute you never have to wonder where the time has gone. You’ll know because you were there.

And, while I want always to take it moment by moment, I also am on the edge of my seat waiting for my daughter to start school on Thursday so I can have some time alone to write, to think, to breathe or just to watch tv without someone desperately needing a grilled cheese sandwich. Is that too much to ask after a summer that has lasted, oh, approximately, 83 days?

At first he didn’t say much when he walked into the kitchen after his exhaustive and expansive first day as a freshman. I don’t know what’s in the water over there but I swear he was three inches taller than he was that very morning.

He didn’t bolt to his room. I made him a cup of soup and we both sat down. I put my elbow on the table, rested my head in my hand, hopeful he would talk. He did.

And while he was preoccupied eating and recounting, I stared at his soft green eyes and watched his large expressive gestures. I listened intently to each word, knowing these initimate 14 year old moments are to be coveted and treasured — even, and perhaps especially — on our first day of high school, after 83 days of summer.

Nominated by Blog Antagonist at Blogs Are Stupid. Thank you, B.A.!

This was one of my very first posts. A little hokey. A tad contrived. But oh-so-true! A good reminder as well as we unbuttom our pants from our holiday feasts and continue our pseudo-hibernation until spring when we throw off the parka and say, “OY VEY” that we should not only watch what eat this winter — but what we wear!

Princess, You’re Not in Disney Anymore

Three months ago I got caught in a mouse-trap and couldn’t escape. Yes, boys and girls, I was wearing a Minnie Mouse sweatshirt in public, in my own upper-middle-class suburban fantasyland, and was spotted by someone I know. She, of course, was not wearing anything with a hood or a personified rodent on the front. We exchanged pleasantries, and I felt like I should relinquish my membership in the ladies-who-lunch club and maybe even the PTO. It wasn’t anything she said - nor was it what she didn’t say. It was how I felt. At that moment, unbeknownst to the characters around me, I had a Dumbo-sized realization that rocked my personal kingdom to its core. It just wasn’t cute if I wasn’t in Disney World.

It was then, that without a wand or a fairy godmother, the magical internal transformation began.

I realized that it mattered to me not only what I saw when I looked into the mirror, but what I was reflecting to others. It wasn’t enough to simply feel put-together and on-the-ball, I wanted to exude a better vibe - for myself and for my children. It didn’t mean that I started wearing June Cleaver aprons and pearls around the house, but it does mean that more often than not, I have my hair and makeup at least minimally done - even if I am just going to pick up cheese and crackers for the mousekeeters.

Sweatsuits and hairclips have their time and place, but Jiminy Cricket — I’m a single woman in my 40’s — and like the Lion King, I need to protect my pride.

I do take an occassional look at my sitemeter (ok, I’m obssessed with who comes here and how long they stay) and with no blogs to read and no soaps on tv, I thought I’d click over. There really aren’t too many people reading blogs on Christmas. What? Too many presents and egg nog to log onto the internet? I’m fascinated by how people arrive at this destination — and while I don’t write to up the numbers, I’m happy when I see that more people stop by each and every day.

But today? Not. so. much.

Which in reality is going to bring down my average daily readership and probably cost me a nickel or two in ad revenue — which over the past six months has earned me enough to buy one small mocha per week. That’s right. One small mocha per week all because you stop by and read the kvetching and the stories, even if it’s by accident.

So, on behalf myself and my local drive-thru Starbucks, I’d like to say

THANK YOU!!

Y’all come back now - y’hear?

Winter break has begun. No school, sleep late, eat out, go to the movies, get bored on Christmas day. Not a lot of blogging going on these days around the blogosphere, so in lieu of brand-spanking new creative drivel, I’m offering a variety of slightly used posts for your reading enjoyment. Some of these have not appeared on this blog, but they’ve all appeared somewhere.

They are all my favorite for one reason or another.

See you on the flip side of 2008 with lots more original kvetching!

Shelf Life

One hour and four garbage bags later, the fridge and kitchen cabinets have been dusted, scrubbed, dumped and organized.

My kids are right.

There’s nothing to eat.

I’m wondering what possessed me to stock up on Triskets like they could save the world or bags of unsweetened cereal that look like Styrofoam peanuts. I attribute it to the thrill of the unadvertised “special”, the promise of three for five dollars resulting in a maternal rush of adrenaline and precise mental calculating.

It’s like I’m watching a tennis match between the crackers and the cookies. I stand behind the grocery cart, eyes darting from box to box envisioning all the things I could do with three boxes of anything. Lunches? Let me at ‘em! Appetizers? Absolutely! Then there are those middle-class back-of-the-box recipes and craft diva drawer organizer creations from the recycled cardboard. The truth is, I rarely have the time or energy for crafting more than curious prose on alternate Tuesdays, but I’m a shopper and a dreamer. The final score in the grocery aisle is based on how many people would benefit from my well-stocked pantry. In addition to myself, my kids, their friends and my friends, there’s always my faraway family who might hop on a plane and show up on my doorstep unannounced and famished. Though that’s as likely as my teenage son throwing away an empty orange juice carton or chip-clipping the top of a cellophane bag of pretzel rods, it sticks in my craw like caramel, and I stock-up on frozen mini-bagels and string cheese.

If you add the plentiful food we don’t eat to the empty granola bar boxes feigning snacks, it’s clear that the problem is not only what I am storing, but how. Like the food at the back of the refrigerator. There I found many well-intentioned leftovers and jars of spicy mustard sitting next to a super size container of wheat germ and still unopened bottle of Kahlua circa 2002. Aside from a lucky piece of chicken or cold spaghetti, leftovers in our house remain left over — for days, weeks, months. In an effort to be green I sometimes thwart plastic ware for dinner ware covered with the evil nemesis of a once-eaten meal — aluminum foil. Since the food is then rendered unidentifiable, when it has been on the shelf longer than snow has been covering the patio furniture, I throw it out, bowl, foil and all, no questions asked. Even though no one will eat it, food is not garbage when it’s still technically possible to do so.

With the leftovers gone and the catsups condensed, it’s still not easy to keep a fridge tidy. Take a muddled and mysterious tapping sound coming from the middle shelf, for example. I discovered the source just in time to take my daughter to school — a continuous trickle of flax seeds falling from their bulk-buying plastic bag. I did a courtesy wipe and sweep and held fast to the knowledge that one day when I removed all the drawers and shelves and liners and bottles and foods, I’d find Omega 3 strewn in every imaginable appliance crack and crevice. And I did. I then uttered those seven little words which I swore I never would, but obviously personify good housekeeping habits. “Leave me alone, I’m vacuuming the refrigerator.”

But hard work pays off. The light actually does illuminate the entire inside of the fridge and now we can plainly see that if anyone wants an orange, it’s tucked into the drawer with a bag of precut apples, which is much easier than trying to find them behind the spaghetti sauce on a shelf. If you’re looking for salami it’s in the deli drawer, not the fruit drawer with the onions and the milk is standing on the shelf in the door, not on its side to make room for the syrup. The cabinets are organized as well, but not compulsively — soups on one side, pasta on the other, flour and sugar on the very top shelf, with snacks close at hand. Now there is adequate space for boxes of things we will actually eat before they expire. I aim high.

Today I’m starting with a clean slate — although I’m sure before next weekend, along with the refrigerator it will be refilled. I’m hopeful the memory of hoarded Melba toast will make me reflective enough to make better choices.

And since I’m on a roll, I’m also going to see what’s under the kitchen sink.

I’ve never had Christmas, it’s to my dismay
As I love all the lights, and the trees and the sleigh

I long for the red and the green M&Ms
There’s a hole in my heart, where a caroller stems

I have a bay window, where a tree would look grand
And not one but two fireplaces, where St. Nick could stand

I would cook up a dinner, put Thanksgiving to shame,
I would revel in guests, endlessly entertain

Yet my heritage dictates, and beliefs coincide
That memories of Maccabees, bring December pride

It’s not a big feast, it’s a festival just
But celebration and eating, are a Hanukkah must

It’s not Jewish Christmas, it celebrates light
And a small and strong army, that fought with much might

Though I love all the fuss, that is Christmas each year
I hold my own holidays steadfast and dear

I do not miss, what I never have had
So when others are puzzled, thinking I’m sad

I assure them I’m happy, it does not take a toll
To watch Christmas pass by, while eating egg roll

I’ve packed the menorahs, the presents are done
Hanukkah here, was nothing but fun

But I’ll stand at the window, on your Christmas Eve
And watch out for Santa, because it’s good to believe.

*This was originally posted in 2006.

Last night I was doing my motherly duties helping my daughter with her homework. Social Studies. Andrew Jackson.

“It’s interesting,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever,” she responded.

She is an excellent student, diligent about homework, but like most 7th graders, she is not so good at embracing the long-term benefits of understanding why Andrew Jackson vetoed the Bank Act or why she needs to come up with a new route for Lewis and Clark when we take airplanes — and they’re dead.

In an effort to show her that education is a lifelong process, I beckoned her to the dining room and abandoned my computer. I sat down across the table from her to help her analyze a 200 year old political cartoon. In order to do so, I’d need to read the chapter.

“No problem,” I said. “I like to read about history.”

She slid the slightly battered textbook across the table and I twirled it around.

Chapter 3.

I looked at the page, and I moved only my eyes to look up at my daughter. I looked at the page again and every so slightly, I slid it farther away.

So I could see it.

Shit.

I looked up at her again and her eyes were wide, eyebrows raised. We both laughed.

“You moved it away so you could see it!” she said.

“My eyes are really tired,” I said, knowing full well that at 7 pm that was not going to fly, and that after almost 44 years with 20/20 vision…I was on the road to getting part of my wish.

Friday night we saw the Nutcracker Ballet.

Saturday night we celebrated Christmas at a friend’s and I wore the elf hat and gave out the presents. Yes I did.

Sunday night I was chasing Dog #3 around in a foot of snow in the back yard trying to get her to drop a dead rabbit so I could scoop it up into a laundry basket with a large blue plastic bowl.

I was throwing hot dogs and chicken all over the snow to try to get her to drop it and then I’d throw the laundry basket on top of said rabbit and stomp my foot on the upside down purple basket like I’d just reached the summit of Mt. Everest, screaming “AH HA” before she came lunging back — only to realize I was no where near the bowl or the trash bag. Again. And again. Finally got snow, dead rabbit, laundry basket and bowl into said trash bag and flung it over the fence to wait for trash day. On Thursday.

I’m doing this all running in the snow, in the dark, shrieking at the dog and throwing and scooping and tossing a dead rabbit and household utility items — while my kids are warm inside with their hands over their eyes and their fingers in their ears.

And who do they feel bad for?

The bunny.

It was easy to forget the cold grayness of our hilly suburban neighborhood as I cozied up with my four-year-old son on the couch against our huge living room window. The hill on which we lived gave us a view of two streets lined with houses. On this night most were flickering with adornments of the season. It glimmered and was lovely. The snow reflected not only the moonlight but the strings of icicle lights and flashing North Pole signs. While I admired the fleeting beauty in my neighborhood, my son was contemplating the flip side of an age-old childhood quandary.

“How will Santa know not to come here?” my four-year asked; eyes wide.

We didn’t have a chimney but that didn’t matter. The even more relevant fact that we are Jewish and do not celebrate Christmas in any way, shape or form – even as a secular holiday – was not sufficient enough to quell the fears of my pensive preschooler.

As a mom I was at a fork in the road of parenting. I could have very well told him that parents leave all the presents, and that Santa isn’t real. I could have explained that parents do that for their children because it’s fun and part of the Christmas tradition in our country. But all that got stuck in my throat. That wasn’t what he was asking. He believed. He was four. And even though it wasn’t my myth to perpetuate, I did not want him to lose his sense of awe and wonder. Even of Santa.

He was not hoping for a few misbegotten toys to show up on Christmas morning although I’m sure he found himself somewhat distracted at the idea of yet another Power Ranger. He wasn’t secretly wishing for a tree, nor did he want to leave cookies and milk “just in case.” He got showered with gifts for eight nights of Hanukkah and attended a Jewish preschool. He wasn’t feeling deprived or particularly left out of anything. To him, the thought of a big man in a red suit coming into his house was troubling. He wanted reassurance there was no way that guy and his sleigh were going to land on our roof. And while it was my job to quell his fears, I did not want to burst a childhood bubble of belief.

“See those lights?” I asked him. “Santa only goes to the houses with the lights”.

He nodded.

A good save.

When my son lost his first tooth later that year, the same thing happened with the Tooth Fairy. He was mortified. He wanted no part of some stranger coming into his room in the middle of the night, flying no less, and sticking her hand under his pillow. Money or not, this was just not an idea he was comfortable with.

So, we put his pillow on the kitchen table with the tooth under it, and I’ll be darned if that Tooth Fairy isn’t one smart magical creature. She knew just where to go. Tooth fairies, we learned, are very accommodating.

I think about these events every time the Santas reemerge in the malls and on the street corners, and I smile. I wonder what I’d have done if we did indeed celebrate Christmas. Would I have dressed my son in his plaid finery and plunked him on St. Nick’s lap at the local mall screaming in terror? You know, the way he did when he got his hair cut? Ah, the memories.

I’ll never know.

What I do know is that I smile when I see the adorably dressed, color coordinated tikes lined up, sucking on their candy canes ready to meet the big guy in the red suit. And I love yanking my son’s chains about sitting on Santa’s lap now, at 15, when I promise Santa would be the one shaking in his boots as my baritone asked for a $600 video game system.

My son, who stands 5′9″ to my 5′3″, still smiles like a little boy when I tell him these tales of his long-ago worries and questions. His stature has changed, but not so much his sweetness. I’ve never been sorry that I rewrote the script for some childhood characters to meet the needs of our family, because one thing is certain: things change. And while my son is still somewhat tentative and cautious, at this point anyone who wants to leave money under his pillow, or a present by the fireplace, is more than welcome to do so.

This story was first published at The Imperfect Parent, and has subsequently been published in four parenting magazines across the country.

Growing up I always wanted braces, glasses, a cast — and at this time of year, a Christmas sweater. Sadly, as a straight-toothed, safety-conscious Jewish girl with 20/20 vision, I was consistently out of luck.

Just click here to find out what this Jewish mom is writing about Christmas.

It all continues in my article at Chicago Tribune dot com.