Category Archives: Life

I Love Humans

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When I was young, I dreamed of living in New York City. My father, a photographer among other things, used to take me on the train from Philadelphia to Central Park when I was barely out of diapers, and even as a child, I knew it was a special place. I sensed that even though I lived in Philadelphia, a city, New York City was the city. When I got older, I would spend the day there with my high school friends, walking and shopping and dreaming of when I would live there, too. And these were the days before Sex and the City — I can only imagine what my obsession would have been if Carrie Bradshaw was my role model. New York always represented Real Life to me. Everywhere else was just a sad poseur.

I never managed to fulfill my dream of living in New York City. Each passing year, I became more and more realistic, less and less brave. Things still turned out just fine for me, and I certainly wouldn’t trade my happy suburban life here for anything. I live in a beautiful area: great place to raise kids, excellent shopping, academically competitive schools, low crime, fresh air, horses and Starbucks each ten minutes away. But there is a small part of me that will always wish she could live a New York life, too. Then Ed reminds me of the large part of me who hates crowds, lines and germs, the part who is claustrophobic and always proclaiming she “needs her space.”

I love that different is normal in New York. Everyone is from somewhere else; everyone brings something different to the party. And when you’re constantly around all that “different,” you just can’t help it — you become broader, wiser, better. You take the best parts of all those different people and they become a part of you. When you’re only around people just like yourself, it’s harder to grow. Not impossible, but it takes more work.

One of the greatest joys about starting this blog is learning that I have readers from far away places — some which I’ve visited (France, Spain, England), some which I’ve only read about (Viet Nam, Pakistan, Nepal, Korea), and some which I had to look up on a map (I won’t embarrass myself with examples). To know I am connecting with people outside of Chester County, Pennsylvania is thrilling beyond words. Not New York City thrilling, but it will do.

I want to share with you one of my favorite websites introduced to me by my friend Kathe. It’s called Humans of New York. Photographer Brandon Stanton walks around New York City and takes pictures of all the different characters he comes across, a photographic census, so to speak. The Facebook page is updated way more frequently than the website, so I would suggest liking the page if you’re on Facebook.

The video below is just a small taste of some of the beautiful people you will find on the website and Facebook page. It is the perfect shot of humanity for this wannabe New Yorker, and I find it impossible to watch this and not think, “Yes, I do love people.”

http://vimeo.com/35660226

My Five Stages of Running

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I don’t like to tell people I’m a runner because I’m afraid they will automatically think, “Then why are you still fat?” But the truth is, I am a runner. The last (and first and only) big race I did was in 2005, The Broad Street Run. Ten miles. It was a challenge. Since then, I have mostly stuck to the 3 to 5 mile range of running. Not nothing, but hardly impressive in the running world. That said, runners all all incredibly supportive people, and no one in the running world would ever say, “That sucks, you fat sissy!” I take care of that job myself.

I do my best thinking during my runs. I only wish there was a way to safely harness my genius ideas on to paper, because they second I stop running — poof! — my cure for cancer and a Middle East peace plan is gone. During my last run, I realized that almost every single time I hop on the treadmill, I go through the Kübler-Ross model, otherwise known as the Five Stages of Grief. Allow me to share them with you:

1. Denial which manifests as procrastination: I will run as soon as I wake up. Okay, I will run once the kids get on the bus. No, I will run once I clean up the kitchen. Just one more load of laundry, then I will run. I really should bring these bags to Goodwill first. Or maybe I should eat breakfast first. No, I should really digest my breakfast first. Once I will get back from the store, I will run. Okay, tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.

2. Anger which manifests as an adult temper tantrum: “I HATE RUNNING! IT IS SO BORING AND STUPID! WHY CAN’T I BE COORDINATED ENOUGH FOR ZUMBA?”

3. Bargaining which fluctuates between delusions of grandeur and extreme slackerdom: Today I won’t stop until I hit six miles. Or at least five. Okay, five. No, maybe I’ll work on my time. Today will do my fastest 5 k ever. Eh, I’m not feeling it. Two miles is enough. It’s better than nothing, right? Some version of this thought process happens almost every run. I start out setting an Olympic record and end up satisfied with thirty minutes and a light sweat.

4. Depression which manifests as hypochondria: Ouch, my ankle. Ouch, my shin. Ouch, my knee. Ouch, my hip. I should probably <insert one> slow it down, cut this short, stop right now. If I don’t listen to my body, I will probably need <insert one> crutches, ACL surgery, a bilateral hip replacement, a living will.

5. Acceptance which is my own little pat on the back and keeps me coming back for more. Well, it wasn’t my best run, but I’m improving each time, and I feel good. I’m so glad I pushed myself to do this. Watch out, World, I’m back! Why do I fight it each and every time? I may not be perfect, but I am Good Enough.

The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start. — John Bingham

Our House is a Very, Very, Very Fine House

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As of February 2012, I have lived in this house eighteen years. Eighteen years! I moved here as a child bride of twenty-five, and I swear it was yesterday.

Like most young married couples, the house we really wanted was just that wee little bit out of our financial reach, so we had to settle for the house we could afford. Actually, that’s not true. We could have afforded more, but we factored in that one day I hoped to take a few sixteen-plus years off with our imaginary future kids, and we didn’t want to be dependent upon my income to pay our mortgage. That way, just in case I wanted to stay home a little longer to work out, have lunch with my friends, and start a food blog work on the next great American novel, we could do so.

The lady who lived in this house before me, Diana, was quite the neighborhood Martha. I’m sure I shook things up around here when I moved in, this young chippie stockbroker with a job in the city. Now, with the wisdom of age, I see that no one was the least bit impressed or intimidated by me and my “credentials,” they were merely confused. Did you hear she is twenty-five? they all whispered. I learned that women in their late-30s, early-40s view twenty-five year olds with some inherent suspicion. As they should. It’s amazing I made any friends. I’m pretty sure I would have hated me back then, or at least not have rolled out the red carpet. But all of my neighbors were always very kind, and some have become dear friends over the years.

We wound up looking at this house three times before we figured out we wanted it, so clearly not love at first sight. More like love after a few beers and midnight approaching. It is on a corner lot, not the coveted top-of-the-cul-de-sac position. My bathrooms are small and not the Barbie Dream House bathroom with a nice tub that was on my Must Have list. Every room was wallpapered or sponge painted within an inch of its life. But it had a good vibe to it. It felt like a loving family lived here, and I liked that. The clincher was a little framed calligraphy saying that read:

Rich is not where you live or what you have or what you wear. Rich is who’s next to you.

Or something like that. It WAS eighteen years ago, and I’m no longer a spring chicken. It’s funny, the silly things we remember, but I did remember that little sign. It felt like a sign. Like home.

I remember walking the yard from all angles and thinking, “It’s an odd yard, but it seems like it would be a fun place for kids to play…to sled in the winter, play baseball in the summer, run through sprinklers.” I hated that it was on the corner, but we figured we could plant some evergreens to block the road. It’s hard to explain the feeling, years later, pulling into my driveway past sixty-foot tall trees, and seeing kids playing basketball in the driveway and running around the yard. I remember the person I was when I first saw the house and envisioned my family, and now here they are. Very rarely in my life have things turned out exactly the way I pictured they would, so when I see my kids playing in the yard, it’s hard to not smile.

Back when we were young and optimistic, we deemed this our starter house. We figured if fortune smiled upon us, we would trade up one day, and if not, this would be an acceptable house to stay in. We tried to move in 2001, but many forces conspired against us. It was almost supernatural; we fought off obstacle after obstacle in an effort to buy our dream house, but eventually we accepted defeat.

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. — Dalai Lama

We were meant to stay here, I really believe that. And the house we deemed our dream house? Turns out it would have been a very wrong choice for a variety of reasons (not the least of which is a nasty mold problem). Whenever things don’t work out the way I want them to, I try to remember this. But there are other times, more shallow times, when I feel disappointed that we never bought the “we’ve made it” house. I feel ashamed admitting that, because the rational part of me knows how incredibly fortunate we are. Sometimes Geminis aren’t always rational.

Fortunately, every spring, as the seed catalogs start arriving, I fall back in love with my house. Diana set me up with some beautiful flowers and trees which continue to thrive to this day: dogwood, wisteria, irises, and — best of all — peonies. We have had a vegetable garden every year since 1994 (note: before it was trendy). I give Ed full credit for this. It’s possible I might have fought the garden for a few years, resenting it like a mistress. I might have called it a few unprintable names. I definitely didn’t help nearly as much as I should have. It seemed like a lot of unnecessary work to me when we have five grocery stores in a six mile radius. It took me a few years to get it.

There is something so magical about growing your own food on your own land. I am hardly a beacon of clean eating, but the fundamental purity of that act is so fulfilling. It feels almost holy, creating food from seed, and I think it becomes even more magical when you use it to feed your children. This year, the garden will be undergoing some necessary renovations. When you live in one place for so long, you inevitably learn nothing lasts forever.

I moved around a lot as a child. Moving was something I always hated and wished to spare my own children. I hope when my kids look back on their childhood, they will remember this house fondly with its flowers, trees, vegetable garden and odd backyard, and I hope they will know that despite their relatively modest home, they were rich.

Dogwood in the front yard

Vegetable garden in the back yard

Pink peonies — short lived but gorgeous

Tears in my Shopping Cart

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Like most women who stay at home, I find myself at the grocery store quite often during Mom Hours (9:00 to 3:00 pm), and I tend to avoid the store other times. When you shop during Mom Hours, you obviously see lots of moms, and frequently those moms will have their kids with them. I used to be one of those moms towing kids along, but I’m not anymore. My kids are big and in school all day, and they smartly choose to avoid the grocery store whenever possible.

Back in the day, taking my kids to the store was never what I would call “fun,” but it wasn’t terrible, either. It was just something we did together for many years — part of my Life with Small Children, part of my Life as a Young(ish) Mother. Most of the time, things turned out just fine. Yes, we had our moments, and I’m sure some trips were stressful and embarrassing and rather unpleasant at times, too. But mostly we were fine.

It’s hard to describe or explain my sorrow over losing something not particularly fantastic. It makes sense to mourn the loss of snuggles and public hugs and cute mispronunciations and naps, but it doesn’t make sense to miss a chore you never especially cared for in the first place. And yet, inexplicably, I will be in line and see a mom with three little ducklings behind me, and I will sometimes have to blink back my tears. It doesn’t matter if one of the kids has a runny nose and the other one is trying to steal gum and the third one is whining that he’s thirsty and the mom looks a little frazzled. It doesn’t matter that I am showered and my hair is brushed and I might even be wearing something nice because I am soon going to a grown-up lunch with a grown-up friend to enjoy uninterrupted grown-up conversation. I see that woman with her three little kids, and I always feel sad and sometimes even a little jealous. It makes no sense whatsoever.

I suppose I am at a crossroads, transitioning from the world of needy little kids to independent bigger kids. I’m not quite ready to leave Sesame Street and Fisher-Price behind, but my kids have long since graduated from those baby things. Like the perpetual college student, I just enjoy it here way too much and want to keep things the same even though all of my friends have moved on to bigger and better.

Years ago, when I was first starting out my career, I worked with a girl who talked about what she wrote under “ambition” of her high school yearbook senior picture. She told me, without the least amount of shame or embarrassment, that she wrote her ambition was to be a good wife and mother. Really, I said? That’s it? Boy, did I feel sorry for her. Frankly, I thought that was the most pathetic thing I ever heard. Hello, is it 1950? A good wife and mother? Way to aim for the stars, Sister. Nice job setting feminism back fifty years.

Greetings, Irony, we meet again. Despite all of the colossal — and perhaps delusional — ambitions of my late teens and early twenties, I ultimately settled on being A Good Wife and Mother as my ambition. I can’t imagine a better one to have chosen. But there are days like today, when I’m in the grocery store all by myself, when I am reminded that my days here at this gig are numbered. Today I am buying food for five, but in a couple years, I will be buying food for four. And then three. And then two. Excuse me while I break into Sunrise, Sunset while sobbing by the yogurt.

The simple fact is that I truly love being a homemaker, and I think I’m pretty good at it. And I really don’t want it to end. So if you see a teary-eyed 40-something lady staring a bit too long at you and your kids in Acme, don’t be alarmed. That’s just me willing myself to remember every mundane detail of the best job I will ever have.

Review: Zitner’s Butter Krak Eggs

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Note: If you came here looking for a recipe, please see the last paragraph for link.

For a couple months a year, it is very, very good to live in the Philadelphia metropolitan area. That is when our local gems, Zitner’s chocolate Easter eggs make their brief appearance. Like many Philadelphians, I grew up first seeing these eggs at the checkout counter of a Wawa convenience store, and I was immediately hooked.

There are a number of flavors available, but my favorite one by a mile is Butter Krak. Now I know what you’re thinking: Huh? How can candy with the words, “Zit, Butt, and Crack” — and misspelled, at that — possibly taste any good? Poor, illiterate Philadelphians with no sense of proper marketing language! You’re just going to have to trust me on this one. They are so good. They taste like Easter. They taste like childhood.

In a world of mass produced candy with infinite shelf lives, the centers of these eggs are still placed on wooden trays by hand in limited batches from the same factory in North Philadelphia since 1922. While some automation has occurred over the last 90 years, the recipe has remained the same. I still prefer the earlier versions of Butter Krak eggs which had little pieces of coconut poking through the chocolate (just like someone’s nana would have made in her own kitchen), but the machines they use for coating now provide a thicker layer of chocolate than when done by hand, and those stray pieces of coconut are now covered. Call me crazy, but that little detail makes a difference to me.

I can’t devour the chocolate Easter eggs like I once did, so I try to limit myself to two or three spread throughout the two month season. I love that they’re so little and 140 calories, so while eating one is very satisfying and always feels a wee bit naughty, it’s not doing too much damage. Assuming you stop at one. Which I highly advise.

I love these eggs because they are special to me, but I do wonder if they will hold the same appeal to food-loving folks who didn’t grow up with them. For this reason, I hesitate to yell, “EVERYONE MUST TRY THESE!” Nostalgia is funny that way, and I’m the first to admit it completely robs me of my objectivity. But just in case any of you non-Philadelphians or transplanted Philadelphians are interested, they can be purchased here or through the Zitner’s website.

EDITED: Feb 2013

The following recipe, while not an exact duplicate of Zitner’s Butter Krak eggs, is still quite good, especially if you use higher end chocolate. Give it a try!

To Love

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Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. — Lao Tzu

I know it’s popular these days to hate Valentine’s Day and rail against its commercial nature, but I have always been a fan. Relax, no one is making you spend money, just thoughtfulness. I do understand the urge to rebel against someone telling you how to express your love, especially if you feel you’re already quite good in that department. But are most of us, really? Can’t we benefit from a gentle nudge in the love direction once a year? At the end of our life, we will never regret expressing our love and appreciation to others. In fact, I’ll go out on a limb and say that most of us will wish we had done more.

We have always celebrated Valentine’s Day with special food. Aside from our first year of dating, we neverevereverevereverEVER go out to dinner on Valentine’s Day. The service is poor, the prices are jacked up, and the restaurants are crowded with people who otherwise never step foot in a restaurant. No thanks!

Instead we either get take-out and eat it in the dining room by candlelight or make something special from one of my cooking magazines. 90% of the time, I am in yoga pants instead of something fancy. If I’m cooking, I like to prepare something nicer like lobster or filet mignon. Ed, old fashioned guy and fabulous role model, always buys me a sweet card, roses and chocolate, and even though I always yell at him not to waste his money (and I’m on a diet!), I secretly love it. I know people who go all out with big ticket items, but I am truly happy with our setup.

This year Valentine’s Day in our house is rescheduled to the 13th due to two basketball practices on the 14th, and I decided to make something the whole family enjoys: Beef Bourguignon! Shhh, don’t tell Julia, but I will be trying out a new recipe. I will report back on Monday or Tuesday and let you know how it turned out. Usually on Valentine’s Day we just feed the kids whatever is quick and easy, but I’m glad this year they are sharing our special meal with us on Faux-Valentine’s Day. Sometimes you just have to have glorified beef stew on a Monday night in yoga pants to remember you are Real and surrounded by so much love.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

— The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Adventures in (Not) Cheese Making

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I was so excited to learn my uber-talented friend Loraine started to make her own cheese this fall. She took a three day course (Cheese College, I call it) in Vermont (where else?), and she immediately hit the ground running. I first sampled some of her amazing cheese made from the milk of her own animals at her annual Christmas party, a party filled wall to wall with so many homemade gourmet hors d’oeuvres that Loraine makes Martha herself look like a slacker.

In my typical delusions of grandeur fashion, I just assumed I would be able to learn this craft during a one hour visit. I had big plans of visiting Loraine yesterday and interviewing her about the cheese making process so I could share it with my readers, but as soon as I walked in the door, I knew I was in over my head. Too much science! I believe I am destined to be a cheese taster and not a cheese maker, as the level of chemistry and biology involved hurt my pretty little head. Considering I am challenged enough by maintaining the pH balance of Andrew’s fish tank, let’s just say this is the safest decision for all involved.

Assuming, though, that I was up for the challenge, I asked Loraine what equipment was involved, and how much money a hobby like this might cost. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: So, if someone wanted to get started on cheesemaking, what sort of equipment would be required and how much would it cost?

Loraine: Professionally? It would be quite expensive.

Me: PROFESSIONALLY? Ha! No, silly, I just want to impress my friends. You know how I am!

Loraine: Oh, well in that case, not too much money. Just some pots, a thermometer with a pH monitor, some molds, and a wine refrigerator or a modified refrigerator that can keep the cheeses at 52 to 55 degrees Fahrenheit. (she points to a huge double glass door refrigerator in the corner) Or a floral refrigerator like this.

Me: Wait, you bought a floral refrigerator just for your cheesemaking hobby?

Loraine: Well, yes, but…

Me: Okay, interview over. I’ve officially determined that it’s much better to have a friend who makes her own cheese than to make it yourself. You know, much like having a friend with a boat…

If any locals are interested in learning more about this mysterious process, contact me and I will pass on your questions to Loraine. The rest of our visit was quite lovely and way too short. Loraine sent me packing with a delicious assortment of cheeses shown below (isn’t she amazing?) and I walked away, once again, proud of my ability to pick out the very best people to call my friends.

Tomme is nutty and smooth, and typically varies based on fat content and the cows’ seasonal diet.

Saint Marcellin is young, soft, complex, nutty and creamy. Possibly my favorite of the bunch.

Jarlsberg is a nice all-purpose cheese: nutty, buttery and mild. Equally good for snacking or recipes.

Bel Paese means “beautiful country” in Italian. It is semi-soft, mild, delicate, and goes well with wine.

 

 

 

Review: Glutton for Pleasure by Bob Blumer

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Recently I shared with you my cookbook shelf, as well as mentioning a very special and important cookbook to me, The Surreal Gourmet by Bob Blumer. It was the cookbook which gave me my wings and the confidence to fly, and fly away I did. In fact, I flew so far and didn’t look back, so I had no idea what Mr. Bob Blumer has been up to all of these years.

Turns out he had a pretty impressive and colorful career, including three subsequent cookbooks, two Food Network television shows, and numerous Guinness World Records. Needless to say, I was completely starstruck when Bob emailed me a thank you for the shout-out and mentioned he has a new and possibly cookbook-shelf-worthy book out, Glutton for Pleasure. I immediately ordered it on Amazon, so keep in mind my review is based on a book purchased with my own Ed’s hard earned dollars. In the interest of full disclosure, Bob was gracious enough to send me an autographed copy for The Shelf. How could he possibly resist his biggest fan?

I love this book! Part memoir, part guide, part recipes, and wholly entertaining. If I knew any young brides or young bachelors, I would give it as a shower gift or housewarming gift. There is so much great advice in here on the practical aspects of setting up a kitchen, choosing the right wine and entertaining in any sized space, in addition to humorous stories, classic recipes (my beloved Caesar salad, steak au poivre, and beer can chicken), new-to-me recipes (maple-icious salmon, mambo chicken, love me tenderloin), kid-friendly recipes (popcorn cauliflower, parking lot eggs) and just plain weird, uh, I mean surreal and clever recipes (lamb cupcakes with beet frosting, dishwasher salmon, cereal killer soup).

Some of my fondest memories are of our salad days, when we were newly married and living in our first townhouse. We would put on 10,000 Maniacs Our Time in Eden CD, prepare Bob’s Caesar salad in our small kitchen (beer and homemade croutons always mandatory) and talk about our life and our dreams. We had so much less back then, but we were very happy, and no salad ever tasted so good.

Twenty-plus years later, Bob is still inspiring me.

 

Ask Mom Mom: Facebook Etiquette

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More than one person has asked me to weigh in on the subject of Facebook etiquette, and I am happy to oblige. Sometimes when I’m on Facebook, it seems like otherwise decent people have completely forgotten their manners and common sense. Here are a few gentle reminders:

1. Don’t say anything on Facebook that you wouldn’t say to your boss’s wife/husband at a company Christmas party. Acceptable Status: Whew, this weekend flew by! Back to work in just 12 short hours. Unacceptable Status: I hate my job and all of the idiots I work with, ESPECIALLY my stupid moron boss!!!! If you keep this simple “boss’s wife” principle in mind, 99% of all your Facebook problems will be solved.

2. NO POLITICS. If you must speak of politics, speak of actual ideas you believe in and can intelligently support for valid reasons, not ugly partisan bashing or cheap political jokes. Good ideas have no political affiliation. Unless you are 100% sure of the political persuasion of each and every one of your 325 friends, keep your mouth shut. Would you tell that joke to your boss’s wife or husband? Would you tell that joke at a cocktail party? No? Then I don’t want to hear it, either.

3. Keep the pictures tasteful. I think it’s really super that you lost 65 pounds since last summer, but you’re a mother of three who is over the age of eighteen, and I really don’t want to see you in your bikini posing in your kitchen. You’re just embarrassing yourself.

4. No Vaguebooking. Just in case you’re unclear, here is a vaguebooking status: I can’t believe what happened today. Unbelievable! I am totally devastated. Then when fifteen well-meaning friends ask, “Are you okay? What happened?” the response is always, “Oh, I can’t talk about it.” Really? Because you just did. And now you’re annoying me.

5. No dirty laundry, no profanity. Don’t talk about your rotten ex. Don’t talk about your slutty neighbor. Or your cheating husband. Keep it classy, people. It’s not cool or funny to call people gay or retarded. If you wouldn’t say it to someone’s face, don’t say it on Facebook.

6. No excessive bragging. Yes, I do enjoy seeing your vacation pictures. No, I don’t want to hear about your husband’s giant bonus. Yes, I want to hear your kids are doing well in school and in sports. No, I am not interested in your child’s “very superior” IQ. There is a line of good taste. Figure it out, then don’t cross it.

7. For God’s sake, wish your friends a Happy Birthday! I realize Facebook has taken the definition of “friend” and stretched it beyond any recognition, but here’s the deal: If we are Facebook friends, and you are active on Facebook and can’t even manage to wish me a Happy Birthday by typing two stinkin’ words? Then we are not really friends.

All My Cookbooks

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As I mentioned back in my Caesar Salad post, my first cookbook was The New York Times Cookbook, a mighty doorstop-sized tome. I was about 22 when I bought it, and I immediately knew I was in over my head. I could only tackle the simplest of recipes (I believe cucumber salad was my first victory, and even that was a challenge). Mostly I would just refer to it casually in conversation, you know, like, “My New York Times Cookbook says the right figs make all the difference.” I am sure everyone was quite impressed.

My second cookbook was a complete 180. Bob Blumer’s The Surreal Gourmet was filled with recipes and language I could easily understand, and it provided me with the Caesar salad recipe I still use to this day. I’m pretty sure I made every single thing in that book. It was my own Julie and Julia (Dawn and Bob), minus the fame and fortune and advanced skill level.

We got married in 1993, back when Prodigy was everyone’s internet server of choice. There was no Google, and Food Network was still in its infancy. In other words, cookbooks were still relevant. And boy, did I love them. My cookbook collection grew exponentially each year. I dreamed of a kitchen with a dedicated cookbook shelf to display all of my babies.

One day while looking through the Pottery Barn catalog, I saw black ledges hung on a kitchen wall displaying cookbooks, sort of like artwork. I had a big, blank space on my kitchen wall, and I just knew it was meant to be filled with my cookbooks. The problem was that many of my favorite cookbooks were rather well-loved, Velveteen Rabbit style: ripped, food stained, and generally disgusting. Definitely not artwork. I had a few acceptable, non-disgusting cookbooks, but not enough to fill a wall, so I went online and ordered a vast array of bargain cookbooks based solely on their size, shape and cover art, and these served to fill in the blank spaces. I thought I was quite clever.

The problem was that the Pottery Barn ledges were ridiculously expensive, considering it was a simple black painted piece of wood, and probably cheap wood at that. Ed jumped in with the words I hear quite often, “Oh, I can make that!” And he’s right, the man can make anything. ANYTHING. We’ve all heard of the time value of money, but what about the money value of time? This is my number one rebuttal to Ed’s, “Oh, I can make that!” We compromised and bought the cheap Target knock-offs. Let me share with you just a couple of the horrible reviews of these ledges:

This shelf is flawed in design; the mounting structure does not lie flush with the actual shelf, and the shelf overhangs by about 2 millimeters– doesn’t sound like a lot, but IT WILL KEEP THE SHELF FROM EVER HANGING ON YOUR WALL. However, before you realize this, you’ll have dug several holes in your wall– or six, precisely, if you’re me. And then you’ll find that for all your hard work, painstaking leveling, perfect placement…. [……] wall shelf will NOT CONNECT WITH THE MOUNTING BAR. DO NOT BUY THIS. TARGET: YOU OWE ME A NEW WALL. MINE IS MARRED BECAUSE I TRUSTED YOU. MAKE THIS RIGHT

and

DO NOT BUY THIS SHELF. I work in contracting and never saw such a poorly made piece of [junk] in my life. This is by far, the worst buy I have ever had from target. The directions are incomplete and inaccurate and the bracket and shelf will never come together, despite your best efforts. Wasted [$$] on two of these things. TARGET PLEASE DISCONTINUE THIS PRODUCT.

But thank God I am married to Superman; not only can he build anything, he can also FIX anything. Needless to say, he had his work cut out for him. He was right, he definitely should have just built them from the get-go. Sometimes I’m wrong.

I have not purchased a cookbook for several years, thank you, Internet, but I still do appreciate a good cookbook. My cousin Linda recently recommended a fun, quirky, retro book called Square Meals by Jane and Michael Stern, and it’s a must for any cookbook collector. Cousin Linda says the kugel recipe is fabulous, and once I’m done de-carbifying, I plan to try it. The recipes — many of which contain gelatin — are both hilarious and historically accurate. All I know is that Square Meals will be an invaluable reference for me when I host my next Mad Men party.

These days, the cookbook has to be pretty special for me to consider it, but I do hope to add to my collection over the years. If there is any “must have” cookbook in your collection, please let me know. There is always room on the shelf for one more.