New Beginnings with Baking Chez Moi and Ladies Pucks

How fortuitous is it that the beginning of a new bake-along coincided with the beginning of hockey season? And, as fate should have it, we baked these beauties, literally translated to "Ladies Pucks," from Baking Chez Moi.

Many thanks to Dorie Greenspan and the Tuesdays with Dorie group for timing the birth of this book and baking group so perfectly to fit the Yale Bulldogs' home season opener. I'm sure that was at the top of their mind, right?

The only way it could have gotten better is if the cookies had been called Palets de Monsieur, since it was technically a men's hockey game at which my cookies made their debut. But I won't quibble: I'm a lady, I eat dainty, vanilla and lemon frosted white cookie "pucks" in the literal way. These men, they eat pucks in a "take my teeth out with a three-inch vulcanized black rubber disc going 90 miles an hour at my mouth" kind of way. 

But I digress.

These cake-like cookies bear a strong resemblance to the classic black and white, minus the black. My chocolate-lovers balked a little at this ("what's the point of a cookie without chocolate?"), but they settled down once they tasted them.

I've written about our hockey obsessions before, so for now, let me just say this:

The super-simple recipe came together quickly and performed well under the scrutiny of some of the most discriminating fans. Unfortunately, we can't say the same for the Yale bulldogs this year. We could be looking at a long and torturous hockey season. Thank goodness we've got Dorie's incomparable recipes to see us through. 

You can download Dorie's recipe here. Check out the other Tuesdays with Dorie participants take on this recipe here.

Isn't this a beautiful tray? My mother painted that flower!

Crisis. Averted: TWD oven-roasted plum cakes

“Can we walk to school without you this year?” 

I should have been singing with joy when I heard this last week. They are in 6^th and 4^th grade, after all. They’d be walking with their friends. And there are about a thousand friendly neighbors to help them find their way, if god forbid, they should get lost. But still, they were taking a flying leap out of the nest, and I was in no hurry to let them go.
 

But I resisted my usual obsessive-compulsive-mother-hen instincts. Instead I put on my bravest smile and kissed my little chicks goodbye at the front door. Then I got busy with the vacuum cleaner so I couldn’t flutter into the car to follow them.

And would you believe it? They survived!

At pickup time, there they all were – smiling and proud and eager to walk home. Without me. “We’ll meet you there, Mom. Can we just go? Please?” Ouch. Give ‘em an inch…!

And suddenly, there it was again – swooping down on me like a shrieking, red-taloned bird of prey. The mid-life crisis was back.

These little creatures I’ve created – they can feed themselves! They can clean themselves (if they choose to). They can cross the street alone! The enormity of the fact that they can survive in the suburban wild sent me into a tail-spin of the familiar old-mommy questions.

What now? The kids are aging, so am I… Why did I dump that corporate career? What’s next for me? The questions go on and on like a broken smoke detector, chirping in my ear every ten minutes to remind me that something more must be done. Soon.

Of course I know that the mommy-ing is never really over. These kids have simply gnawed off another chunk of my heart and carted it off with them in their big-kid backpacks. They still need me for a few things -- at least until they learn to drive. But this walking milestone can’t be ignored.

And so I turned back to the places that give me comfort: the familiar, honeyed luxuries of baking and writing and dance. I Jazzercised every day for a week. I baked challah and ciabatta and whole wheat bread. And I returned once again to the Tuesdays with Dorie project, which this week featured warm, fruity mini cakes.

Oven-roasted plum cakes: a reprieve.

The cakes were a promise that my kids would stay with me for at least as long as it took to finish dessert. With this bribe, I could keep them home and safe for a few minutes longer.

So I tucked my head back down into the satisfying whirl of sugar and butter and vanilla and eggs. I actually squawked with delight as my plums split perfectly on the first try. The house bubbled up with the reassuring scent of warming sugar and all was right with the world.

After their long migration home (12 minutes!) and a light dinner, we shared these adorable desserts. Each ramekin housed little half-moons of plum, all sleepy and resting in a downy pillow of brown sugar cake. 

The mid-life crisis was averted, at least temporarily.

 The kids slurped down their dessert in two gulps, and raced each other to the door. Their friends were ready to play.

We’re going to need a lot more cake to make it through.

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To read more about this recipe, check out the other bakers' posts, or go buy the book.

Phyloccine Ice Cream Sandwiches -- In 3 or 4 Simple Steps.

Phyllo + fetuccine = phyloccine. Brilliant!
Ice cream + anything = immediate win with the kids.
Fruit + stick = immediate win with pretty much anyone.
Sugar + butter = count me in.

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In the spirit of throwbacks from the days of yore, I present to you a pared down recipe from Baking With Julia, care of our inimitable Tuesdays with Dorie baking group (more than two years into the project and still going strong!). 

If you really need more details, check out the other bakers' posts, or go buy the book.

Step 1: Roll and slice phyllo dough and separate strips into little "nests." Sprinkle with sugar and butter and bake for 10 minutes at 375, or until golden brown.

Step 2: Assemble fruit skewers and make raspberry compote (raspberries + sugar + five minute macerate. Add a little mint to the compote if you're feeling inspired.)

Step 3 (Optional): Make whipped cream if you want. No photo available, since I didn't use it. But I'm guessing you know what whipped cream looks like.

Step 4: Assemble layers: phyloccine nest, compote, ice cream, phyloccine nest, skewer. Whipped cream goes on the bottom as "glue" and wherever else it feels good.

TA-DA! You've got a tall, retro, kid-friendly, low-stress dessert that is certain to win friends and influence loved ones. You're welcome.

Six Signs You’re Turning Into Your Cat

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It was just a matter of time before I submitted to the supreme will of the Internet and started posting about my cat...

There’s been a lot of speculation about whether or not pets take on the personality of their owners, but I think in my case, the reverse is true.

Slowly but surely, I’m turning into my cat. (But not a werecat: those are scary.)

Let me introduce you to Wolfie: he’s a black, 8-year old, short-haired domestic who just joined our family a couple of months ago. Wolfie and I spend lots of time in the house alone together, so it’s only natural that we should influence each other's behavior.

Still, I’m concerned that I might actually be morphing into a feline. Here’s why:

1. During the day, all I want to do is nap. I’m good for about an hour or two of productive work – whether that’s exercise or laundry or cooking or writing – and then I’ve had it. My entire being is yearning (yawning?) for sleep. Just give me half an hour, and then I’ll be human again. Mostly.

2. I usually want to be left alone, unless I need you to scratch my back. I’ll curse a blue streak at anyone who comes near me when I’m trying to rest, or anyone who – heaven forbid -- tries to talk to me when I’m watching Idol. Just leave me alone, thanks. Unless you can reach the Lubriderm over there…

3. Dental floss is my new best friend. Really. I found a new brand, and my gums have never been cleaner.

4. I prowl around the house all night long. Between practicing for Jazzercise classes, scrubbing the pots, and straightening up after the kids, who has time to sleep? Good thing I did all that napping during the day.

5. I’m starting to crave fish at every meal. This could mean that I’m breaking feline, or it could just mean that spring has finally arrived and I’m ready to eat lighter meals. You decide.

6. My night vision is getting better all the time. I’m now able to sense the moment before I’m going to kick the cat in the dark. Somehow, that still doesn’t stop me. And that stealth laundry basket is another story.

On Wikipedia, there’s actually a name for the shape-shifting process: feline therianthropy. If it’s on the Web it must be true, right?

What do you think? Should I invest in my own scratching post and some catnip toys, or should I just stop spending so much time on the Kitty-Interweb and start interacting with the real world?

And what about you? How much do you have in common with your pet? I can’t be the only one who worries about this kind of thing. Do tell, in the comments below.

But I'll have to get back to you later. Right now it's time for my nap.

I Told Myself I’d Never Do It Again

Linking up with MamaKat's pretty much world-famous Writer's Workshop today. 

 

She was tiny, like me. Curly brown hair, pert nose, eager to please.  She was quiet and timid; overshadowed by her vivacious big sister. And she stank.

It’s true, I’ll admit it. Despite regular bathing, my toy poodle Pookie trailed a constant stench of bodily waste and decay, especially at the end. But I get ahead of myself.

Pookie was my first pet -- I think she was presented to me when I was still in diapers. Eventually, I learned to control my bodily functions, but poor Pookie never did. She was awarded her name, our family’s term for ‘fart’, during her first days at home, because we quickly realized it would become her primary form of communication with us. Pooks were her signature party trick; her calling card; her drafty personal contribution to family conversation. From the day we met her until the day she died, she was gassy.

It got worse. Despite our halfhearted attempts to train her, throughout her life, skinny, nervous little Pookie seemed to prefer to relieve herself on my green shag rug or in the laundry room, where at least we had a linoleum floor. Inevitably, the odors, Pepe LePew-like, followed in her wake.

Still, Pookie was my dog, and I loved her unconditionally. She was my confidant and my playmate. She’d lick my tears when I was sad, and steady my breathing when I slept. I fed her and brushed her and bathed her; cleaned up after her many “accidents;” dressed her up in doll clothes; took her for walks – everything you'd expect from a girl and her pup.

Each night we’d drift off to sleep together – me: corpse-like on my back, fist balled into my hip, Pookie: wound up in the crook of my arm, resting her doll-sized poodle head on my shoulder. And each morning, I’d find my dog stone asleep at the foot of my bed as I stepped out into a reeking wet circle on the rug, or worse.

Pookie was 13 years old, and I was a delicate 16, when she began to die. She had been growing sicker for many months. Her small body was more skeletal than ever. Her fur had been falling out, and what was left clung to her frame in matted patches. Most of what she ate she vomited out. After we found a mess she’d cower in the corner, reduced to a shamed heap of small, shivering bones. Her body was literally wasting away, as bodies will do. She smelled of approaching death.

At last the day came when my parents decided to take Pookie to the vet for a lethal injection. They told me to say goodbye. In the foyer I held my dog close, cried into her sour hair one last time, and gingerly passed her to my mother. Pookie, for her part, seemed to know what was up. She didn’t complain. I’m told that she passed away even before they arrived at the vet.

I was inconsolable after Pookie died. I lashed out at friends who had teased me about the dog’s filthy habits and I cried myself to sleep for weeks. I moped around the house and wept in the bathroom at school. 

I knew that I should have been grateful that I had so many “good years” with her. I should have been happy that I’d lived to the ripe age of 16 without ever having to say goodbye to someone (something?) I loved. But the cuts ran deep. Never again, I told myself. I swore that after Pookie broke my heart I’d never again let myself get attached to a pet.

Yet time moves on, and though there are scars, wounds do heal. Now, 25 years and two kids later, I am finally opening my home to a new animal. I hope that since Pookie died, I have gained some wisdom and distance from my pain.  While I am saddened at the thought that my children will have to endure the same kind of loss that I did, I realize that caring for an animal is a character-building opportunity. It is a chance to learn how to love and care for something beyond ourselves. It teaches responsibility and generosity, patience and sharing. Sooner or later, the suffering will find us. It is how we deal with that suffering that makes us who we are. Better to have loved and lost, and all that.

If there’s one thing children teach us, it is to open ourselves to all of life's possibilities – to welcome the joy and the agony, and yes, even the stink – because in the end, our lives will be richer for it. I know this now. My kids have been lighting the way for years. I think I am finally ready to follow.

So welcome, Wolfie the cat, to your new home. Let me show you where we’ll keep the litter box…

Well What Would You Call Them?

Dorie Greenspan always gives her confections clever names like “The Cake That Got Me Fired” and “World Peace Cookies,” not to mention my favorite name ever: “Chocolate Spice Quickies" (all these recipes can be found in this masterful cookbook).

So in honor of Dorie, I’m in search of a name for the cookies I made tonight, which were a version of her “Chocolate Chunkers.”

Please leave your vote for one of the following names in the comments section: 

1. National Bittersweet Chocolate Day Cookies.  January 10, 2014 is officially National Bittersweet Chocolate Day. I'm convinced that these holidays exist so food bloggers have something to write about. Always. 
2. Bake Your Hormones Happy Cookies. A great deal of chocolate is involved with these cookies. Bittersweet, unsweetened, semi-sweet, cocoa powder, and white chocolate if you’ve got it (and you count it). This much chocolate should cure pretty much anything that ails you.
3. Spotless Pantry Cookies. No white chocolate? No peanuts or pecans? No worries. I used walnuts, extra raisins, and extra bittersweet chocolate instead. Use what you've got, then take advantage of the empty shelves to clean the pantry before you restock.
   
4. Hit and Run Accident Cookies. Don't fret: Everyone is safe, and it’ll be much easier to find my car amid all the other Toyotas in the Stop and Shop parking lot now. That’s all you need to know. But after you file the police report, talk to your third-rate insurer, pacify your husband, and call your mother, it's time to engage in a little bake therapy. This cookie recipe will do the trick.
   
   

Don't like any of these naming options? Feel free to share your own ideas. And if you're local, I'm happy to provide samples so you can make an informed decision. 

All votes will be tallied and a winner chosen sometime before National Bittersweet Chocolate Day 2015. Thanks for playing!

As You Wish: A Party from the Pantry

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Be ready. Stock the fridge and the pantry with big, happy, wintry foods that set up quick and settle deep (beany-beery chili, corn chips and hearty veggies, a few good breads and cheeses). Make sure you’ve got plenty of firewood, some beer and wine. Pull out the folding table, extra chairs, some board games, plastic utensils. Nothing fancy. All you need now are one or two very good friends and a miracle.

With almost no planning and a great deal of luck this weekend, I conjured such a miracle in the middle of a storm of foul moods and foul weather.

Every December my husband’s impending birthday seems to suck him down into the Pit Of Despair. He’ll shackle himself with worry over possible ideas for celebrating. He’ll list, and then methodically reject, all kinds of outings, meals, cakes, and general family merriment. He will mope around the house for days, terrorized by the threat of another year passing with nothing to show for it.

“I don’t want a party,” he’ll declare. But then, inevitably, about 18 hours before the big day, he will realize that only being around friends and family will cure him of his annual birthday blues.

I’ve spent the last twenty years building up an immunity to his birthday malaise, so I refused to be sucked into his Fire Swamp of drama. Instead, like the raspy old Albino, I set about nursing my poor husband back to his pre-birthday health.

Thankfully this year the winter weather predicted for his big day forced the cancellation of many regularly scheduled activities, and our neighbors were feeling a bit restless. So when we summoned them over on the morning of the event, they gratefully agreed to storm our castle for a few hours of merry-making.

We spread out a lavish buffet of mis-matched munchies. Ben happily chunked together a pot of his famous turkey chili while I steamed up some ciabatta (recipe here). There was no time for cake, so our friends brought a big tray of homemade holiday cookies. (Even with no chocolate coating, they went down easy.) 
Brave wet friends tramped in, dragging dominoes and soggy children behind them.

Wine flowed, fire crackled, sarcasm reigned. Songs were sung, games were played, and no one bothered to keep score. My husband was revived. Love and laughter had conquered all.

Ironically, this is the second consecutive year that we’ve thrown an impromptu birthday party for my husband. I should have known it would come to this.

Next year, I’ll be ready for my true love’s annual drama, but still I’ll wait for him to figure out the solution. Just when he’s almost dead from the stress of facing another birthday, I’ll remind him that we simply need to take stock of our assets, then call in the reinforcements. With my brains, his chili, and maybe a holocaust cloak thrown in for good measure, we’ll be prepared to be spontaneous.

As you wish, dear, As you wish.

(photo credits: MGM)

Ben’s Turkey Chili: A Loose Guideline

2 lbs ground turkey

5-6 peppers (sweet red and green, banana, chili – whatever combination you like)

6 cloves garlic

2 cups celery

6 dried ancho peppers, reconstituted and seeds removed

28-oz can of crushed tomato

1-2 bottles of dark, malty beer

4 tablespoons cumin

3-4 cans of beans (pinto, black, roman, cannelloni – whatever combination you like)

Garnishes: chopped cilantro, tomatoes, shredded cheddar, chopped jalepeno peppers, variety of hot sauces, sour cream, etc.

In a large skillet, brown turkey and remove to a large pot.

In the same skillet, sauté peppers, onion, celery and garlic until soft. Add this to the turkey.

Place dried anchos in blender with a little water and grind. Dump this into the pot with meat and vegetables.

Add beer, tomatoes, cumin and beans. Throw in a little water, until pot is 1/3 full

Bring to a boil, then simmer for 30 minutes. Taste. Add more water if necessary, or replace with beer.

Add salt and pepper to taste. 

Simmer for another 30 minutes or all day until guests start getting cranky.

Serve warm with fresh bread and allow guests to garnish to their hearts’ delight.

And May the Cookies Be Ever In Your Flavor

If you understood the reference above, then you need to see this hilarious Sesame Street video that's been circulating in the media.

For those of you who are fans of young adult fiction, or fans of the Tuesdays with Dorie project, I offer you this, a parachute from our sponsor, Rick Katz's Double Chocolate Cookie:

Alas, these particular cookies were not in my favorite flavor. (I guess I'm too Finnicky.) I've never been much of a chocolate lover. But I love those who love chocolate, so this project was worthwhile for their sakes. Here's what the Master of The House (the MOTH) had to say about it, after a long stressful day at the office:

"(When I tasted the cookie...) I was transported to one of my favorite places—The Chocolate Room (disclaimer, we know the owners). Now with two locations in Brooklyn, The Chocolate Room serves fantastic desserts, and we don’t get there nearly as often as we would like. Tammy's cookie was tasty and soft (much richer and chunkier than store bought), but the flavor and texture was not why eating it made me think of the cafe. 

Taking a bite of that cookie was a moment for me to close my eyes, savor, breathe deep and then be transported to my “happy place.” The cookie triggered memories of being with friends and family, enjoying a treat made with love, and being in a safe place like The Chocolate Room. Nothing but smiles with chocolate-coated teeth. I’ll brush and floss later.

Tammy, and her cooking, often do this for me. She can make me forget about the stressful side of my career. The challenging work, the endless hours, the long commute, the non-stop environment of the office -- these things all melt away when I get home and there is food—made with love—on the table. Sometimes, I’ll admit, that feeling lasts just a moment before the kids climb on me, the blackberry buzzes, and the stack of bills catches my eye. But I have that moment."

He's a real gem, that MOTH. This alliance is one I plan to keep.

Meanwhile, the Thanksgivukkah preparation continues at a furious pace, so our time together is brief. Tick tock!

Check out more bloggers' versions on this double chocolate cookie here. For the recipe, from guest baker Rick Katz, buy the book.

My Grandmother's Teeth

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Images of my grandmother stick to me like tiny crumbs from yesterday’s lunch. The images are tenacious but incomplete, telling an imperfect story.

I remember:

•  A faded bowling ball bag in the trunk of her sedan. (Yellow/green? Leather handles? Circa 1972?)

• Grandma clutching her purse to her bosom in terror as we walked through Grand Central Terminal at rush hour.

• Thick warm arms around me, snuggled in bed as she recited The Story of Tammy for the thousandth time. (“First there was Grandpa Alfred and he married Grandma Ann. Then they had two boys… and then, and then…”)

• Drinking coffee together at the Pizza Plant restaurant in Buffalo, where she met my fiancé for the first time. He was a fellow New Yorker, so Grandma’s blessing was granted immediately. “Just don’t hit her,” she warned on her way out.

But the image that recurs most often, with the most clarity, is a mouthful of teeth. Perhaps because I spent so much time watching her talk when I was small, those teeth remain for me the most fascinating memory of my grandmother.

Off-white, not bright, but impeccably aligned and enormous, Grandma’s teeth demanded attention. Even with her unusually large mouth, the teeth seemed too big for her face. They took up so much room that there was little space for anything else.

What’s more, the teeth seemed to be in constant motion – punctuating stories and clacking opinions incessantly. If her mouth was empty, the teeth made a pleasant little click as she talked. If her mouth was full – which never deterred her from voicing an opinion – your only option was to duck and cover.

Yet even under the constant threat of a bagel/spit ambush, I loved spending time with my grandmother. With her, I was smart. I was funny. I was interesting. With her, I was special. So I ignored her table manners. I tried to avert my eyes from that mouthful of oversized teeth, simultaneously working their way through a meal and a treatise on my father’s naughty childhood antics. No matter what was in her mouth, Grandma Ann was the best storyteller in our family. So of course I looked forward to our time together.

Imagine my surprise when, one fateful sleepover, I wandered into her bathroom and found Grandma’s teeth fizzing away in a cup of water.

Grandma was unfazed. She calmly informed me that her teeth were false. Her dentist husband had replaced her real teeth years before, and now she had to clean her dentures every night in a glass of water with mysterious bubbles. “It helps with the coffee stains,” she explained. Eventually I got used to the idea of Grandma having false teeth. But when I slept at her house, I still kept myself far away from the bathroom after bedtime. A set of teeth with no mouth was just plain creepy.

But as it turns out, a mouth with no teeth is far worse.

I visited my Grandmother for the last time when she was on her deathbed. She was unconscious and breathing irregularly. We knew that she would be gone in a matter of days or even hours, and yet when I saw her, my first thought was how strange and shrunken her mouth looked without its dentures. I remember looking for the cup of teeth in her hospital room, thinking that if I could just put them in her mouth for her, maybe she would wake up and start spitting at me again. Then maybe if I could hunt down a bagel or a good Jewish rye, she’d perk up and start yelling at my uncle or my father, leaving shrapnel of crumbs in her wake.

But of course that didn’t happen, and my grandmother’s death came with the wistfulness and relief of knowing that she had had a long life, well lived.

I often try to revive my memories of her, to mold them into a fuller version of this woman who was my father's mother. In my imperfect catalog of the past, it seems that Grandma Ann and I shared bagels together at least weekly, and her first choice, inevitably, would be the pumpernickel. As a child I didn’t understand the appeal of that flavor. I preferred the sweeter, and decidedly less authentic, cinnamon raisin bagels. (Perhaps I already was traumatized by Grandma’s persistent spittle.)

But now that I’m an older, wiser Jewish mama myself, I appreciate the rich, chocolaty, earthy allure of a good pumpernickel. This week's Baking With Julia recipe for pumpernickel bread incorporates prune lekvar, caraway, chocolate and rye – making this bread worthy of any Jewish Grandma’s approval. As I sink my own teeth into it, I’ll  be remembering Grandma Ann and her big beautiful dentures.

But I’ll still try to chew with my mouth closed.

Thanks once again to Julia Child, Lauren Groveman and Dorie Greenspan, for giving us another opportunity to bake up memories. This bread is complex, dense, and worth all the fuss – even the elaborate sling-rising process.

For more information about the TWD project, check out the links to our fabulous other bakers. For a perfect poem about Grandmas and their pumpernickel, check out this post. For the recipe, I hope you’ll buy the book.

This One Wouldn't Let Me Go

photo source: en.wikipedia.org

Did you ever have an idea that grabs hold and won't let go until you pay attention? That's what happened to me a few weeks ago, when I was driving to pick up the kids from school.

I was thinking about the delicate process of raspberry picking, and how it parallels the  ripening process of adolescence. This idea came, as ideas will, at a very inconvenient time. But like a needy child at bedtime, it refused to loose it's grip on me until I spent some time with it.

So with urgency, in my car in the school parking lot, with parents and children hustling past me, I pounded out a short essay on my laptop. That night, I sent the piece out into the world before I could lose my nerve.

I'm happy to report that the parenting magazine, Mamalode, is publishing my essay on its website today.

Head over to Mamalode to read about how we're coping with this season of ripening, but not yet ripe.

I can’t believe I used to be embarrassed by this.

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For the first six months that I was a Jazzercise instructor, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. I wasn’t sure how my family and friends would react. I knew my loved ones would have questions, whether or not they gave voice to them:

• What is Jazzercise anyway? Isn’t that a fad from the 80s? The one with the legwarmers?
• Why aren’t you focused on getting a real job?
• You’re spastic, remember?
• You’re too fat to be a fitness instructor! (This was a variation on an old theme from my mother, who once claimed I was “too fat to faint.”)

Still, I’d known I wanted to get up on that stage from my very first class. The dance-fitness program’s combination of theatricality, fun, and physical intensity appealed to me. Regular classes had already improved my endurance, energy and fitness level. Instructors often commented on how I smiled through every class. It was obvious that I enjoyed the workout. With its endless variety of moves and super current music, I was never bored.

But I was ready for the next challenge.

I had been immersed in the world of nursing and diapers and mommy groups for five years after quitting my corporate job, and I was in no hurry to return to an office setting. With the kids in preschool and a husband supporting us, the timing seemed right. So after many, many weeks of testing and training, I finally became a Jazzercise franchisee.

Becoming an instructor was a form of reinvention for me, though not in ways I’d expected. I lost more weight and toned muscle, of course. But I also began to feel more graceful and walk with better posture. I smiled more than ever – on and off the stage. I gained confidence as a public speaker. I led my children in nightly dance parties. I gave myself permission to act goofy. I made lots of mistakes on stage in front of large groups of women. And as my customers forgave me, I learned to forgive myself. Perhaps most surprisingly, I began to see myself as a role model for my kids, my husband, and my customers.

Slowly I gained more confidence in my abilities, and began telling family and friends about Jazzercise. I corrected their ideas about legwarmers and leotards, and encouraged them to check out a class. But by the time I got around to sharing my news with family and friends, it no longer mattered what they thought of me. I was hooked.

Now, six years later, when I’m on that stage four times a week, I am still a version of my former self. That spastic, nerdy girl comes out when I occasionally flub a move, or when I make a geeky reference to Pi Day or Glee and I’m greeted by blank stares.

But I’m also a new, better version myself.

On that stage, I am a performer, a mentor, a sadist, a cheerleader, a therapist, a conspirator, a ringleader, a troublemaker, a choral director, a friend, and I’m the host of the hottest party in town. I’m good at what I do, and I’m thrilled to share it with others.

If I can make just one other person smile and sweat with me, I’ll have done my part in making the world a kinder, healthier place. How many people can say this about their jobs, or even their pastimes?

These days, I’m not so shy about telling people that I teach Jazzercise. It is not everything that I am or all that I do, but I hope it always will be a part of me. This version of myself – the confident, strong, flexible and charming Tammy that comes out on stage and occasionally spills over into the rest of my life – this is a version that I’m happy to keep around.

These Are The Days

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There are days, in the cool New England autumn, when a fistful of sunlight forks through my kitchen window.

There are days when the dishes are camped in their cupboards, the counters are, for once, free of debris, and the hardwood floor is creaky and inviting underfoot.

There are days, sometimes, when the kids are at school and the husband is at work, and the washer is running and the dinner is planned and the calls are all made and the to do list is reduced to a nagging whisper of its former self.

These days, the wind spins shadow-leaves on the kitchen table, inviting me to come and play there.

These are the days that I bake bread.

On these days, I will prayerfully unpack the pantry to summon the primal forces of flour, water, yeast and salt. In the slanted sunlight, I will coax a dough into submission with my palms, guiding it toward a “smooth and elastic” finish. Often I’ll spend contented hours tenderizing butter, whisking eggs, and plumping raisins to add to the dough.

As I begin the rising vigil, I will become giddy from the smell of developing dough. I will rejoice over the tangle of gluten strands. I will meditate on the science and magic of fermentation and leaveners, of light and air. I will anticipate the pleasure of sharing the loaf with my husband and kids, who understand the fortitude, skill and optimism necessary for these projects. They get it, and they are grateful for fresh bread at the end of a long day.

Later, I will patiently shape the dough into challot or brioches a tete, braided cinnamon bread or crunchy ciabatta. Or maybe a simple hearty boule will be enough for today. 

And later still, after hours of soulful dish-washing and taxi driving and children’s sports, we will at last sit down together to break bread.

These are the days that I take pictures of my food. Not to show off my beautiful loaves (though some are certainly that), but to remember: this was a good day. This was a day that I had time to bake. This was a day that ended with family, sitting together around the table, grateful and sustained. This was a day that I made bread, and this was a day that I prayed.

The Letter I Didn’t Send

--> Dear Miss Bean, 

I hope you’re enjoying camp. No that’s not true. I hope you’re simply enduring camp and missing us so terribly that when you come home you’ll make us pinky promise to never ever ever send you back. You’ll beg us to never ever ever let you wander away for weeks at a time -- to a place where you are forced to make your own bed, do your own laundry, to brush your own hair (or not), to make your own decisions about what and how much to eat for dinner. Maybe in a few weeks you’ll come back shaky and unsure of who you are, a little younger and more vulnerable and needier than before. Don’t worry. We’re your family. We’ll help you recover. We’ll build up your spirits again in no time at all. You’re our little girl, after all. And you’ll sleep under our roof every day and we’ll take care of each other from now until forever.

Whose idea was this whole camp thing anyway?

No, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say that I hope you adore everything about camp (even the singing, which you pretend to hate when you’re home). I hope you cherish every campfire and canoe ride. I hope you get plenty of use out of that zip line and the Gaga court, and that you play in the mud and collect frogs and tell ghost stories and talk the other girls into some elaborate plot to embarrass the counselors.

Milk this time for all it’s worth, because I need you to get this out of your system – this whole growing up and apart thing. Dad and I are emotionally unprepared for it and it’s simply not fair to any of us. Dad and I like to think of ourselves as plan-ful people. But there’s just no planning for this, is there? This merciless metamorphosis? This inexorable pulling away and opening up to the world around you? Who said you could begin to leave us so soon?

What if I forbid it? What if I said no screen time until you stop acting your age? What if I promised to leave your stuffed animals – all 158 of them – slouching on your bed until you’re 90? I won’t touch them, I swear. What if Percy Jackson and Calvin and Hobbes and Phineas and Ferb were the beginning and the end for you?  They’d be your loyal, lifelong companions, I’m sure. How about if I cook delicious dinners for you every night and bake you chocolate things that make you swoon? I’ll wash your clothes and do your dishes as often as you need. I’ll take care of you right here at home until I’m too feeble to stand, and then I’ll make your brother do it.

All you have to do is stop this relentless blossoming. When you finally get home, stay home. Stay 10. Or younger – I don’t care, as long as it’s not older! Promise me that when you come back from camp, you’ll end this ridiculous maturation process. I don’t want to talk about drugs and bullying and training bras (though we’ve already started, haven’t we?). I don’t want to worry about crushes and cliques and permanent records. And I certainly don’t want to talk about what comes after that. Because of course it’s not just the talking – it’s the knowledge that sooner or later you’ll be out there in the world, beyond our reach. Like now, with you taking your first steps down the path to independence. It is painful for all of us, and we shouldn’t have to endure it. We need to fight against it together.

So if you can just do this one thing for me – stay 10 forever – I promise that when you get home I’ll keep you with me. I promise to shelter and care for you always, and you’ll never ever ever have to go away again. Deal?

Love,

Mom