Mashed Potatoes & Gravy and Donna

In the summer before my Senior year of High School, my parents moved to Columbus, Ohio and I was trusted to be left alone in Connecticut. My Mom had a friend whose mother had a guest house and we rented from her until I graduated. Looking back, I probably should have agreed to go with my parents. This was a turning point for me, being on my own, and I fell off track pretty quickly. You would think that a 17 year-old would have gotten into some major trouble on his own, but really, I didn't. I just did stupid things like overslept, ran out of gas, ran out of cash because I spent all of my money at Chess King at the Enfield Square on an outfit with matching purple, argyle socks.

My friend Donna let me stay with her parents for the summer after graduation and we both continued to work at Caldor, "your everyday discount store." "There's more at Caldor," they sang in the commercials. I used to work my butt off there. It was my first job, if you don't count the paper route and t-shirt business. I started the week after my 15th birthday and managed to get credit for working there at school. In my Junior and Senior years, I worked full-time and demanded to work the 10 hours they were open on Sundays because they paid overtime on Sundays. When I first started working there, I was in the Housewares department, but quickly maneuvered my way to be switchboard operator. I would page my friend Donna because I was bored. "Miss Thomas, please, Miss Thomas." And she would call from the front registers and tell me she was too busy to talk. I wanted to be on the front registers. So I made them teach me how to run the cash register.

That was a mistake.

Eventually, they would just page me up there to ring whenever they had lines of customers. Mrs. Gates was the Customer Service Manager and she used to run to the service desk that had the huge microphone and say, "Misterrrr Cotter, front registerrrrs" She never said "Carter." And I would then get stuck on register and never get to finish my work in Housewares. Soon, Mr. Fiala, the Assistant Store Manager asked if I could be Head Cashier one night because Leah called out. I didn't know how to be, but he assured me that I could. And so it went that I was then Head Cashier all the time and could determine when my friends took their lunch breaks. I did take my job seriously though and was proud of the fact that I held the keys to all of the money and managed to keep track of all of those registers.

Donna would always take her lunch with me. Eventually she only worked weekends and we reserved our Sunday lunch together. Donna was a very pretty, blond girl and always dressed up for work, complete with makeup, high heels and always had the cute guys chasing after her. I used to be jealous for a couple of reasons. The first, obviously, the cute guys did not want to talk to me instead of her. Second, she would sometimes ditch me for lunch to eat with one of them instead of me. But most of the time, it was me that she had lunch with. She introduced me to all of the fast food that I had never tried. I was always afraid to go to a new drive-thru, mostly because I didn't know the menu. I didn't know what to order. And I feared I would stare at the menu for too long and the person behind me would yank me out of my car and beat me up or something. I'm still like that- if I haven't been there before, I just let the person driving order for me. If I'm driving, I'd rather go inside and order. I don't know what that is, but I'm sure I need some kind of therapy for it. Honking behind me gives me anxiety, so please don't honk if you're driving behind me.

She was the first person to take me to Taco Bell and we would order the Nachos Bell Grande. We didn't share. We got our own. She took me to Subway where we got foot-long sandwiches of ham and cheese. But what I remember most is the trips to KFC when they had their Popcorn Chicken. Donna asked if I had tried it and of course, I didn't. We got that and large sides of mashed potatoes and gravy. We would take our Styrofoam containers back to her parents and sit at the coffee table to eat. We dumped the gravy right inside our potatoes and dug in. It was the most fun eating with Donna. A little girl, she was, but she sure could eat! We always got our own food and this way we knew we would never run out. I remember at one point, we had Popcorn Chicken and mashed potatoes everyday for the entire run of the promotion at KFC. Sometimes we just got this as a snack during the late afternoon instead and then had dinner like nothing had happened earlier.

Donna and I lost touch for many years. I don't really remember why and it doesn't matter now. We finally found each other on Facebook and I was delighted to find that she had a beautiful family now and was living in South Carolina. I am happy to be in touch with her again and remember many of our fun times, driving around town singing Madonna's This Used To Be My Playground, En Vogue's My Lovin' (Never Gonna Get It), Prince's Diamonds & Pearls and heading through the town's drive-thru, fast-food restaurants. I no longer eat at KFC because I don't like how they treat their chickens, but every time I pass one or see a KFC truck, I think of little Donna. Caldor is no longer around, but I still have my name badge, believe it or not. Maybe someday Donna and I can go on another Caldor lunch break.

Artichoke Dip and Grandma

Most of my experiences with my grandmother and food are either from when I was a kid or when she visited me in New Mexico. When Grandma came to Santa Fe, we devoured the culinary culture and even took a class at the Santa Fe School of Cooking on the plaza. We ate out for many lunches and dinners at famed Santa Fe restaurants.

Back in New York, my grandmother wakes up very early and so when she visited the Southwest, it was even two hours earlier because of the time change. Every morning, she was up and ready to go when the sun came up. If I slept in, I could find her on my patio checking out the garden and the hummingbirds. If the weather did not permit her being outside, she would sit and enjoy my many stacks of cookbooks and food magazines. When I woke up, she would have a few recipes picked out for us to purchase the ingredients for and cook later. We not only ate out everyday, but we also cooked even more food at home.

After eating New Mexican food for several days with lots of salsa, green chile and red chile, I decided that my Grandma's stomach could use a break. I made a reservation at a local Italian place called Pranzo. I had eaten there once or twice before, but I figured she would appreciate a familiar flavor. Pranzo has a great atmosphere with warm lighting and white bistro tablecloths. The waiters are very relaxed, yet professional and friendly. My grandmother was immediately satisfied. Our waitress brought us some bread and I ordered the artichoke dip.

When the artichoke dip arrived, Grandma kept inspecting it. I asked her what she was doing. She said, "This is so good, I'm trying to figure out what is in this so I can make it. Do you think I could make it?" I told her, it is probably just artichoke hearts, lemon juice, olive oil and Parmesan cheese with some bread crumbs on top.

We enjoyed a lovely meal with some wine after we ate all of the bread. I can't remember if we ordered dessert or if we just had another glass of wine. It was a terrific meal, just me and my Grandma with nowhere else to be. After dinner, we walked along the neighborhood looking in the closed shop windows to see if there was anywhere she would like to shop tomorrow. The next day, we picked up where we left off with the New Mexican cuisine but we were happy to have a break with Italian.

A few weeks after she left, I called her and asked her what she was doing. She said that she was making her artichoke dip for a family gathering of some sort. I said, "Oh, well I hope it comes out like Pranzo's." She said, "Oh it does! I've already made it once before!" As if to say, now she was the artichoke dip expert. I guess that dip made quite an impression on her. She must have gotten off the plane and ran to the grocery for artichokes!

I haven't gone to Pranzo since that trip my grandmother made. I think I would like to have that dip with her again, outside on the terrace in Santa Fe.

Loaves & Fishes and Gloria

There came a time when my Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to go out into the world and volunteer. She said it would be a great thing to put on a college application. It sounded like fun to me, so I didn't mind calling the number she found in the paper for a soup kitchen looking for help. I told the woman that answered that I was available anytime after school. She didn't seem to care that I was volunteering and she almost seemed annoyed that I was only 14. I still showed up on Tuesday afternoon. When I arrived, I met everyone there. The youngest person there, other than me, was about 50.

There was a lady that gave me a tour on my first day. She showed me the storeroom and introduced me to the other Tuesday workers. She explained to me that I was now part of the Tuesday crew, if I didn't mind and most of the people there stared at me without being too friendly. They were peeling potatoes, washing dishes and making gravy. I didn't see anywhere I could jump in. And then Gloria showed up.

Gloria was an older woman who walked with a cane. She was the director of Loaves & Fishes, there at St. Andrew's in Enfield, CT. And direct, is exactly how I would describe her personality. She directed the volunteer staff at Loaves & Fishes like she probably had done for years. There was no hesitating when it came to criticism. If a volunteer had not peeled and cut the potatoes properly, she would have no issues letting them know they had wasted some precious food by using a knife instead of a peeler. She was not well-liked by the volunteers there and they always complained about her behind her back.

She seemed like the only person who was happy to see someone new standing in the kitchen. She asked if I could help her with a few things in the car, which turned out to be a donation she picked up from the local grocery. Gigantic cans of tomatoes. Cases of them. I carried them to the storeroom door, but had to wait for her to bring the key. The storeroom was basically a museum of food. Most things in there were donated and they are cans of things people have in their pantry and don't use. Aisles and aisles of almost useless foods. Foods that don't go with anything. Cranberry Sauce. Black Olives. Horseradish Sauce. Fruit Cocktail. Evaporated Milk. Try making a dinner from that list.

On my first night, the staff made Creamed Turkey over mashed potatoes. One of the churchgoers had managed to secure a few dozen turkeys from a local store and they agreed to stretch the turkeys out over a few days. They would do this by cooking it on the creamed turkey Tuesday, the pot pie Wednesday and the traditional turkey dinner Thursday. I love turkey dinner and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, so I offered to come in on Thursday. Just when I thought my first night would be meeting everyone and getting the tour, Gloria asked if I could be responsible for dessert. I asked her, "What's for dessert?" She said, "I thought I asked you to be responsible." Ouch.

I went back to the storeroom to see if there was something like a brownie mix. No such luck. I started to use my imagination. I saw a generic version of Bisquick with a cherry pie on the front of the box. I saw cans of peaches. And there were fresh strawberries sitting on the counter in the kitchen. Everyone watched me while I mixed it up. I honestly didn't know what I was doing, but figured if I messed it up too much, someone would have said something. And so there you have it, peach/strawberry cobbler for a hundred people.

That was the night that I won over Gloria's heart and soon I was working at the kitchen a few times a week. When I was not on for a shift in the kitchen, Gloria would take me grocery shopping. People donated money and we would have to go spend it. I always thought it was fun that we didn't have to pay tax. Gloria also got to park in the handicap parking spaces. As odd as it could be for a 14 year old boy to befriend a woman in her 60's, I thoroughly enjoyed Gloria's company and I think I made her laugh and forget her pain. None of the other volunteers liked her very much. She always fought for the hungry people coming in to eat while the volunteers were very politically motivated. Most were there doing something for their image. Like I had originally shown up there for. Eventually I was there because I got to know the hungry kids and hungry families that came in to eat our food. I knew if I wasn't there, nobody would make peach/strawberry cobbler.

My parents dropped me off on Thanksgiving for a couple of years in a row and I served the best dinner. Gloria always made sure that there was the traditional Thanksgiving dinner with all of the bells and whistles. It was also the one time that she allowed everyone that came for a meal to go through the line as many times as they wished. She said Thanksgiving is the one day a year that everyone deserved to be full. Some of the men would come through three or four times. We never ran out of food on Thanksgiving. Gloria would stock up food for months to be sure there was enough in our freezers.

We decorated the seating area for Christmas and there was a Christmas tree that the children could decorate. Gloria would set up a table with all of the ornaments and let the kids pick their favorite ornament. Most of them did not have Christmas at home, so we were the closest they would come. I would give them candy canes and we would bring them little gifts with their names on them and put them under the tree. On Christmas, they would come in and never expected to get a gift. Sometimes the gifts were from the Dollar Store but they always had the most amazing smiles on their faces when they opened them up. Every one of those kids had the best manners and they always wrote a little thank you note to the church for providing them food and gifts. They would draw little pictures of me, of Gloria and some of the other volunteers. We would hang them on the tree as well.

When Thanksgiving rolls around, I always remember my times at Loaves & Fishes. I remember pushing Gloria's shopping cart, sitting with the kids at the kids tables and hearing their stories. I often wonder how many of those children have gotten through school and are out on their own. I wonder if they have families of their own now. I also wonder about Gloria. I tried to find her a few years ago with no luck, but my prayers are always with her.

Candy and Candy

I have two sisters. My youngest sister, Lindsay is 11 years younger than me and my sister, Lauren is 9 years younger. As I grew older, I didn't get to experience much with my sisters, especially with the youngest. When she was 6, I was already out of the house, albeit I did have a few stints back at home, periodically. I regret not being closer to home to experience more with them. I remember so much about when they were very, very young and how much fun we had. I also think how much I must have missed in their lives when they were getting into middle school and high school.

Lindsay was a very unique and very funny little kid. She had her own personality and style. She was in extreme control of what she was wearing and how she needed her hair to look. She was very attached to my Mom and they always seemed to be best friends from very early on. In fact, there were times when I was babysitting and she would not let me pour her a drink. She would continually tell me she was thirsty, but would insist that Mom had to pour her the drink. If Mom was not returning for several hours, Lindsay would wait.

She was also sometimes a lot smarter than the rest of us gave her credit for, really. She could be quite manipulative and get away with it flawlessly. If she was waiting for Mom to come home to pour a drink, during those hours of waiting, she would concoct a story that could have been written into a Lifetime TV movie starring Shannen Doherty. Mom would walk in and Lindsay would start the fake cry. The fake cry was harder to detect with her, it actually sounded real and you could tell that she spent a lot of time practicing and polishing her crying skills. I also became very skilled in detecting the fake cry. I wasn't always accurate with my assessment, but I got better as time went on. I had heard a lot of fake crying and real crying with my brother and sister, before Lindsay was born, so I am pretty good at determining what is real and what is fake, but Lindsay could actually stump me.

Mom would run to her, totally falling for the fake cry (obviously unable to detect the fake cry) and Lindsay would run to her with open arms. They would meet halfway and hug, as Mom picked her up and they would go sit on the sofa. Lindsay would take as much Mom time as she needed. She did not need the time to stop crying as that had miraculously stopped when she got Mom all to herself. She would use this time wisely. She would tell a story about something that did not happen and she would manage to write each of us into the story, in a guilty role and we would wait for the verdict. It was a cross between Clue and Judge Judy. Mom would yell at us as Lindsay stood behind her smiling real big and we would exchange "squinty" eyes at each other.

There was always a way to get revenge with her.

She never, ever that I can remember, had a day without candy. Mom would always buy her candy at the checkout stands because Lindsay was a lot of times, the only one with Mom. We didn't want to go to the grocery and Lindsay did. She wanted to go because she knew she could get more candy. She never saved the candy. Ever. On holidays, she consumed as much candy as she could handle before getting sick. She never had a spare Cadbury Cream Egg or Candy Cane. It was gone and she needed more.

Her other obsession was gum. We always had to keep a pack or two of gum around because even when she was very little, she would just walk around saying, "Gum. Gum! Gum!!!!" and would demand that we get her a piece.

My only revenge with her was when the candy she got was something like M&M's. She would put them out on the table and start eating them one by one. Then she would get up to go to the restroom or she would go get something to drink. I would take a handful quickly. She always noticed when some of her candy was missing. I think she must have counted how much she had left. She probably knew that I took 3 orange, 1 yellow and 2 light browns.

Eventually, I could not get revenge anymore because if she got up from the table, she took her candy with her. One of the benefits of having three older siblings, I suppose, is that you learn every trick in the book. And my sister did. She realized that you could not leave candy lying around, so she either quickly ate all of it or carried it with her wherever she went. I remember seeing her outside riding her bike with an M&M's bag in hand. Or being in the pool with her Skittles on the edge of the pool in perfect view. If Mom had candy in her purse, she would do periodic checks throughout the day to be sure the candy was still there, inspecting it to be sure we didn't open it and take a piece out.

At some point, I nicknamed my sister "Candy" and the name has stuck. When speaking of her, I refer to her as Candy and most of my friends who have not met her, probably don't even know that her real name is Lindsay. She has always been Candy to me, as far back as I can remember. One thing my sister and I have in common is the love of candy. Now that we are older, we no longer give each other the "squinty" eyes behind my Mom's back, but we might take Mom's candy when she's not looking!

Halloween Candy and Dad

Growing up with three siblings made Halloween a big event in our house. We usually fit into a few different categories as far as costumes go, mainly because we were so far enough apart in age that our Halloween preferences shifted. My younger sisters would attend an afternoon Halloween party, usually dressed as a ballerina or princess while my brother and I had one goal in mind: candy collection.

We debated about which costume we would wear starting in August, making our mind up by the time school began in September, and then changing our minds on October 30th. My Mom would scatter about town to collect all of the supplies- masks, makeup, wigs, etc. I remember being a chef, a mime, and a clown. I don't remember much about the costumes, because it was not really the priority.

My father would start us getting ready early, as my Mom insisted we have a nice dinner because we would be eating so much candy that the food in our stomachs would help. Dad always stuck up for us, convinced Mom that we would be fine and got us into the car at dusk. We drove to the neighborhoods that were farthest from the house and worked our way back toward home throughout the night. Just when you thought you were done, Dad would get us in the car and we would drive onto another neighborhood.

There were a couple of cool things about my Dad on Halloween. First, is that he always had a mask to wear and always managed to scare us. Second, is that he was routing for you! He wanted you to fill the pillowcase with candy to the very top and he didn't care if it took all night. Sometimes I would be so tired and want to go home, but I knew that it's not like I could just knock on doors and get more candy tomorrow night, so I better just keep at it until I got more than enough candy.

When we got back home, my brother and I would dump our pillowcases onto the carpet in the living room. My Mom would go through one pile and my Dad would go through another, checking to be sure the candy was safe. We threw away the apples and anything else that seemed like it could be a risk. When my parents said it was okay, we sat there for quite a while, sorting out our candy by type, brand and flavor. Once we sorted out everything, we would take a look at each other's side of the room. Before continuing on, we looked to see who had the most candy. It was usually me. Trick or Treating brought out another side of me and I would not have a problem asking someone for another Twix.

We would sit on the floor, opposite of each other for a long time. We would pick a couple of things that we wanted to eat right away. For me, this was always chocolate. Then we would trade back and forth. "I will trade you a Vanilla Charleston Chew for your Reese's Peanut Butter Cup." That is not a good trade. But somehow I could convince my brother to give me one good thing if I gave him two or three bad ones. "Okay, I will give you the vanilla chew, I will add TWO packs of Smarties, and the (eensy weensy smallest box ever) box of Nerds." He would totally take that offer because he was getting four pieces and only having to give up one. He would also regret that trade later, because you should never give up a Reese's Cup. Everyone knows that.

My Dad would request payment for taking us out all night, and we were happy to oblige. He would examine all of the candy spread out on the carpet and would make a few requests based on our inventories. If we only had one of something, he would not ask us for that piece. We would offer him up our unwanted goods as well- Bit O Honeys, Mary Janes, Black Licorice, Smarties, and probably the Top Two Worst Trick or Treat receipts of all time: Toothbrushes and Raisins!

At school the next day, my Mom would have put some candy in my lunch and I would sit with the other kids and they would tell me how much candy they got the night before. I was always surprised that most kids only went trick or treating for an hour or so and landed half a plastic pumpkin full of goods. My Dad always took us all night long until the porch lights started turning off because the candy ran out. We would continue on for hours and we filled our pillowcases to the top. I'm sure my father was tired from working all day and wanted to hang out with my Mom. But he saw the importance of this crucial holiday for kids and became one of us for just one night.

Sushi and the Boy

When I first moved to Santa Fe I was offered two jobs simultaneously. One was a sales job with Anne McGilvray and the other was working with the buyer of the art museums in town. I wanted the sales job, but it was commission only and would not have a paycheck for several months until the commission kicked in. So I started working at the Museum of New Mexico. My friend P. Susan use to love the letterhead of the buying office stationery. It read across the bottom: Museum of New Mexico Foundation's Museum of New Mexico Retail Buying Office. Since the Museum of New Mexico had several museums under it's wing, I used to even add the name of the museum I was in that day when I answered the phone. So I would see that it was her calling and would answer, "Thank you for calling Museum of New Mexico Foundation's Museum of New Mexico's New Mexico Folk Art Museum Retail Buying Office, this is Kaline, how can I help you?" We would laugh hysterically for a few minutes and then get back to work. This job lasted about a few weeks before I realized I was incredibly unhappy with my decision. I really wanted the sales job, selling gifts and books wholesale. This job was a job I was meant to have and after realizing I made the wrong choice, I called Anne and the job was still open. Both of us were elated to be working together and as it stands today, this was the best job I've ever had. It didn't pan out financially the way that I had hoped, but I have never had as much fun working sixty to eighty hours a week.

When I left Anne McGilvray after 5 years, I started working for Macy's. This was in 2004. I started as a sales manager and was managing the Men's and Lingerie departments. My first Valentine's Day back in retail, I was moving the Valentine boxers in the back of the Men's department to the front by the registers, hoping for a boost in sales. A very hyper girl came up to me and said, "Can I ask you a very personal question?" I said, "Go for it." She said, "Okay, are you gay?" Alarmed at the audacity of the question, I said, "Yes." She said, "My name's Holly and my friend John wants to ask you out on a date, but he is obviously too chicken to come over here and ask you. So I'm asking you for him. Can he have your phone number?" Her friend, John, was nowhere in sight.

Now, in the right state of mind, I probably would have just brushed her off, called security and had her escorted from the store. No way would I give a stranger my phone number without meeting them first. But I thought, "What the hell" and gave her my number. I really don't know why I did that.

I don't think it was long before John began texting me, which was the first time I had actually ever used the Text Message feature on my phone. That same day, he also sent me a picture of himself and I realized he was much younger than I had anticipated. He was ten years younger than me and I thought there was no way I would be even willing to go out on a date with him. But I still kept texting back. In the meantime, I was talking to my friend Valerie and telling her how I could not date someone so young. She convinced me that age shouldn't be an issue and I should give him a chance.

While we were texting, I thought, I bet he doesn't like good food. I bet someone who is 20 years old just loves pizza and fast food and would not be interested in a beautifully cooked meal or a reservation at a top restaurant. This wouldn't work for me because all I do is read about food, watch food shows, cook food, bake, talk about food, and eat food. I knew whoever I ended up with had to have a strong appreciation for good food. So I texted him, "What is your favorite food?" I cringed when I heard my phone beep with a response. I was afraid to look with fear of seeing "Pizza."

He didn't say "Pizza." He said, "Sushi." And so we live happily ever after. I don't know what would've happened if he said Pizza or Taco Bell. I am so thankful that he didn't. Almost 5 years later, we are still together and I love him more and more each day. We don't have sushi as often as we would like, but we always eat together whenever we can. This is one of the many things that has kept us together. We enjoy our meals together and we come up with terrific new ideas to try out in the kitchen. I couldn't be happier!

Mars Bars and Jackie O.

While living in Manhattan, I read a lot of books and magazines by hanging out in the bookstore. Most notably, I frequented the Strand Bookstore located at 12th and Broadway. It was only a few blocks from where I lived. I would sit for hours and go through all of the new books and catch up on my magazines without spending a dime. The Strand was stuffed with lots of old, out of print books too. It is always best to go to a bookstore rather than the library because you can catch the new titles. At the library, the new titles are immediately checked out and you will never get to see them until they are old.

I remember reading a lot about Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis during that time. I picked up a used copy of her biography and started flipping through the pictures and then I couldn't put it down. I bookmarked my pages with a gum wrapper, so I could return to the bookstore and read another couple of chapters each day. I was fascinated how Jackie was widowed twice by the age of 46, how tragedy struck her family and yet she continued to be one of the most gracious women in history. All of this and somehow she managed to keep up with high fashion, literature and art.

What stuck with me somehow during this time is that while she was in Greece, on her private island, with her own zip code, Jackie would fly in cases of Coca Cola and Mars Bars. It was her favorite candy bar and you could often see her in the tabloids with her Coke and cigarette. I thought how glamorous this was and how expensive it must be to overnight cases of Coke and candy to the Mediterranean.

I kept the Mars Bar story in the back of my brain and it became an addiction. Much later, I would buy the 24-packs of Coca Cola (regular, not diet) and keep them in the trunk of my car. I kept the Mars Bars in a lunch bag with a cold pack squished in my glove compartment. I ate a minimum of three Mars Bars a day and probably double that in Cokes. I would have a cigarette afterward, just like Jackie.

Jackie O. got me through some tough times. I felt so glamorous and knew that someday I could have a case of Mars Bars flown into the Greek Isles. I have yet to claim my private island and I have yet to have the Mars Bars flown anywhere. But you can bet your bottom dollar that someday, I will.

May 19, 1994 marked a very sad day for the world. When it was announced that Jackie had died at the age of 64, I was stunned. Frozen. I immediately ran to the store to get my Mars Bars and Coca-Cola. I sat in front of the TV with CNN turned on and cried. By myself with my Jackie meal. The same followed suit on May 26th because I had to watch her funeral as well. This was one of the most depressing weeks and one that I will never forget.

JELL-O Eggs and Mom

My Mom really supported my creative side by constantly finding new projects for me. Sometimes on a weekend, if we were both sitting around after breakfast, we would get in the car and go on a crafting adventure. We liked to go to the local craft fairs and most of the time, we didn't buy anything, but we looked at everything to get ideas. Ideas to make our own ornaments, t-shirts and knick knacks that could clutter a house to the point of no return. My Mom is the Queen of the knick knack, the trinket and the bric-a-brac. Mom would hold up an ornament at someones table and she would say, "Kaline, you could make this, couldn't you? If I got you the stuff, could you make me a bunch of them?" I would quickly think up a process on how to make it and come up with a list of supplies in lightning speed.

Then we would head over to Flower Time. Flower Time was the version of what we know today as Michael's Crafts. We would walk up and down every aisle so we could be sure not to miss anything. We would leave with all kinds of things. Things we needed for our projects. Things we needed for a project we thought about last minute. Things we did not need at all, but they were on sale.

One time my Mom asked me to paint a cat's face on a sweatshirt. She bought me the t-shirt transfer and the white sweatshirt. I already had some paint pens and I went to work. I am not sure if the shirt really was that impressive. It was not difficult to do, I just had to trace the outlines of the transfer. Had it been a little bit more intricate, I would have had some trouble. Soon, people starting asking for the shirts and I began taking orders. Then my Mom said it would be a good idea for me to have a table at the craft fair. And a little business had begun. Soon I would spend everyday after school in our basement painting t-shirts. Christmas designs, fall leaves, and the ever-popular kitty cat face. The designs got a little more involved as time went on and I started doing some tricky things like a matching pair of sweatpants or trying to paint on sneakers and socks.

My Dad would usually drop me off at the fairs, he would cart my six-foot banquet tables in and set up with me. A few times, I entered outdoor fairs and he would set up the tent that I purchased and be sure that the tables were stable on the grass. I'm sure that taking his son to a craft fair at 7am was the last thing my Dad wanted to do over the holidays, but he never once complained.

I had a few different displays that I had bought and it seemed to be working. One of my favorite memories about displaying all of my t-shirts is the t-shirt clip. In the 80's, we had those plastic clips that you could pull the bottom corner of your shirt through. I sold these with my shirts too- in a rainbow array of colors. Later on, people would call me and order dozens at a time. At one point, I was in the local paper, the Hartford Courant with an article about my t-shirt business. After this, I got so many orders that I would stay up all night painting and then I would be exhausted at school all day. But I kept up with it through the season as best I could. I did have a few angry customers and Mom would get on my case to start making some for my own family.

Mom always found more projects for me in her magazines. She would always have random copies of Family Circle or Woman's Day lying around and inevitably, there was a craft project in there that we just had to replicate. I remember one time she found the JELL-O egg recipe. She dog-eared the page and ran to show me. My immediate reaction after seeing the picture of beautifully colored JELL-O Easter Eggs was, "Impossible. You cannot make JELL-O into an egg form." She said, "We HAVE to make them." And so we did.

We hollowed out a dozen eggs by popping the top off carefully and setting the eggs in the carton. We poured different colors of JELL-O into the eggs and let them set. When they were ready, we peeled them like hard-boiled eggs and wouldn't you know it? We had JELL-O Easter Eggs! We used green food coloring in coconut flakes to make grass and set them nicely on top. When we presented the platter of eggs, everyone was so impressed. But nobody was more impressed with us than we were with ourselves!

Now, of course, since everyone likes to copy my Mom and me, you can buy the Easter Egg JELL-O molds at kraftfoods.com and cheat by using those. Or you can make them the way they were originally made. The way they were meant to be made- like my Mom and I did.

What I remember about our little adventures and projects is that my Mom was my best friend while I was growing up. It was amazing to me how supportive she would be of anything I wanted to do. She was so much fun for me to hang out with and always willing to take a day off to complete a project with me.

Cereal and Dad

When I was about 8 years old, I would get up on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons and eat some breakfast cereal. Sometimes I would be up before my parents, so I would have to quietly get the cereal myself and turn on the TV. I did have a few favorite cartoons. The Jetsons was fun to watch, Scooby Doo never failed to give you the suspenseful mystery to solve and then of course, there was Tom and Jerry!

My Mom always bought the same cereals. Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Raisin Bran and sometimes, Honeycombs. I think she didn't like how much sugar all of the other kinds had and wanted us to eat these kinds instead. Whenever I slept over at a friends' house, I would be so excited if they had one of those sugary, kids' cereals. Froot Loops (which i always thought was odd to misspell "fruit" for kids), Alphabits, Corn Pops, Cocoa Puffs, and Apple Jacks. These were among my favorites and I noticed that even the free toy inside the box seemed to be better than the ones in the Raisin Bran. In Apple Jacks for instance, you could get a cool Batman sticker and tattoo, whereas with Raisin Bran, it might be a Muppets trading card. These are not even comparable in the mind of a 3rd grader. Even the games and mazes on the back of the boxes were more fun on the sugar-filled cereals.

Before my parents got up, I would pour the milk into my bowl of Cheerios and sit in front of the TV and watch my shows. My Dad always told me that when I wake up and get my cereal, that I can only have one bowl. I would always ask if i could have another bowl anyway. Sometimes he would pour me half of a bowl and that would be nice, but I did think how nice it would be to just keep eating cereal all morning. I loved my cereal.

One day, I decided that since he was asleep, how would he know if I ate one bowl or two bowls?! So after eating my first bowl of cereal, I went back into the kitchen to pour my secret, second bowl. This time I chose Raisin Bran since my first bowl was Cheerios and hurried back to the Saturday morning programming. I started eating the Raisin Bran and it was so delicious, but once I got halfway, I was too full to finish. This made me realize why my Dad always told me to eat just one bowl. I took the bowl and mistakenly left it on the kitchen counter.

An hour or so later when my Dad woke up, he saw the bowl immediately and asked why I didn't finish my cereal. I didn't have the smarts to tell him I had a stomach ache, or that it tasted funny and maybe the milk was bad. I told him that I had gotten a second helping and couldn't finish. He told me this was unacceptable and that I would need to finish the cereal so as not to waste any food. One of the many things my parents constantly preached was that we were not a family that wasted food. One of our dinner nights was always a little smorgasbord of leftovers. We would pull everything out of the fridge from the prior days meals and put it in the oven. Mom would put all of the dishes of leftovers onto the top of the stove and we would make little plates. I actually enjoyed this because you got to choose what you would have for dinner and a lot of times, it felt like Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday.

So my Dad made me eat the bowl of cereal I had left on the sink. It had become very soggy, as Raisin Bran does when not eaten immediately and it was a bowl of warm, brown, mush with a few lumps of raisins floating to the top. I think it probably took me a half an hour to finish all of the contents. I had a sour look on my face, I'm sure and didn't speak to him for the rest of the day. I understand now that it was an important lesson that many children must learn. I don't waste food now, that's for sure.

This was the last time that I had cereal. Since that day, I cannot stomach mixing dry ingredients with milk and eating them together. I suppose you could say, I now have a fear of soggy cereal.

Watermelon Juice and Stevie

I remember in 4th grade that we were given an assignment to write a report on one of the United States. We had to pick a state and then research the encyclopedias and other books in the library to formulate a report that was a few pages long. We also had to include an art project with our assignment that was relevant to our state. More than half the class chose New York because that is the state we were living in, another third chose Florida and a couple chose California. I remember feeling badly that there were 50 states and the entire class had decided to skip 47 of them. I felt like Mrs. Broncato should have assigned the states because now the kids were all going to have the same report. I did not choose one of those three states.

I chose New Mexico. I don't know why I chose New Mexico, but I think it is because you never really hear anything about New Mexico and I wanted to know what it was all about. I read a few entries in the several sets of encyclopedias learning all about Francisco de Coronado, Juan de Onate and the Mexican War. I learned that New Mexico is the 5th largest state in area and at the time was the 2nd least populated state. After reading so much about New Mexico, I always kept in the back of my mind that someday, I would live there. My art project was a diorama with an adobe house and a saguaro cactus. Which if you have been to New Mexico, you know that we do not have saguaro cacti here, it can be found in Tucson, Arizona. Apparently I had not done as much research as I should have.

And so when I had the opportunity to move wherever I wanted to go, I chose Santa Fe, New Mexico with my then partner, Andy. I dove into the community immediately and could not get enough of the culture, the art, the food and the little quirky adventures that only Santa Fe could provide. One of the first things I chose to do was go to the famous flea market up on the hill by the opera. The flea market became a place that I went to often for a few reasons- I liked the variety of merchandise mixed with local artists, I liked the furniture of which a few pieces became part of my home, and most of all, I craved the watermelon juice they serve at the snack bar. The watermelon juice is exactly what it sounds like- freshly squeezed watermelon. In the giant glass jars that they serve from, you can see the seeds floating on top and chunks of watermelon floating to the bottom. They serve it in an over sized Styrofoam cup with a straw and a lot of times, when you press the plastic top on the cup, it will leak down the sides. This is one of the most refreshing drinks you could imagine- not only does it taste good, but it hydrates you on a hot, summer day in the dry desert. I don't know how I know this, but it is also very good with vodka.

I think it goes without saying to everyone I know, that Stevie Nicks is someone that I am "obsessed" with. I have traveled many miles to catch her perform and after seeing her more than 20 times throughout my life, I could see her another 20 if the opportunity presented itself. I was even Stevie Nicks for Halloween once.

I did have the chance to meet her once in Columbus when my friend Karrie's girlfriend was a DJ at the local radio station. She invited me to the station when they were interviewing Stevie. For about a week, it is all I spoke about. When the time came to walk downtown and meet her, I turned around and went back home. I chickened out. I did not want meeting her in person to ruin my perception of her and since I do hold her up on a pedestal, I did not want to lose that. This always seems rather funny to most people when I mention this, and I certainly am not a psycho celebrity follower, but I remember Stevie getting me through so many difficult times of my life. I identify with her, the choices she's made and how she's written about the hardships in her songs and poetry. One of my biggest regrets now is that I did not embrace the moment to meet her. Have no fear, I still managed to pick up two dozen white roses to present to her at the concert the same night I was to meet her. The security guard would not let me up to the front of the stage and promised to give them to her. I decided to hang onto the flowers until I noticed the security guard disappear and make my way to the stage. I purposefully waited until she was near the end of her set, so if I did get kicked out of the stadium, I wouldn't miss much. I did make it to the stage, laid the flowers in front of her microphone which was flocked in black ribbons, feathers and beads. I made it back to my seat safely in time for the encore.

I had heard that Stevie Nicks frequented Santa Fe and at some point, she was rumored to have actually purchased property there. I had hoped to run into her at some point and could make up for the time that I missed meeting her. On one trip to the flea market, I convinced myself it would be best for me to make it halfway through the flea market before stopping in the middle to get a watermelon juice. When I got to exactly halfway, I stopped and went to get the juice. Perfect! Nobody in line. I get up to the counter and the guy says to me, "Excuse me" and yells to the lady in the back, "Hey! Stevie Nicks just left her wallet here."

And here is what happens next...

I grabbed the wallet. Yes. I asked which way she walked. I ran up and down every aisle of the flea market. I asked every vendor, frantically if they had seen her. When I was in the last aisle, I quizzed another merchant, in a serious panic, "Have you seen her? Stevie Nicks! Is she here, was she here, which way did she go?" She was standing right there, behind me, with a few people by her side. I felt a little ridiculous at this point being totally out of breath and red in the face. I said, "You left your wallet at the snack bar." She gracefully took the wallet, very slowly. She said, "Thank you." She turned slowly in the opposite direction and grabbing one of the guys' arms she was with, walked very quickly to the gate, out to the parking lot and disappeared like Rhiannon in the sky. I don't even remember what she was wearing, whether or not she had a carpetbag purse, if she had purchased anything while shopping, or quite frankly, if it was even really her. This whole saga probably happened in less time than it took you to read this paragraph. For me, however, it lasted a lifetime.

I went back to retrieve my watermelon juice and asked the guy at the snack bar if it was really Stevie. He said, "Hell if I know, but it sure as hell looked like her." The thing is, in Santa Fe, it is not uncommon to dress like Stevie Nicks... too bad we hadn't taken a second to look at the ID inside. Now I walk away, to sit at one of the picnic tables in the gravel and reflect on the moment. I always wondered if it was really her. I wondered if she had to leave the flea market because of a crazy fan or if she was going to leave anyway- she was in the last aisle after all. Either way, I had my Santa Fe watermelon juice which made running after her worthwhile.

Fall Breads and Grandma

Most people probably think of me as someone inspired by Martha Stewart. This is true in the sense that I do appreciate her standards in baking and love the challenge to duplicate her work. However, I believe my true inspiration for baking has mostly come from my Grandmother, my father's mom.

Growing up, it was common for anyone in my family to be driving down Albany Avenue in Kingston and just decide to take a sudden detour to my Grandmother's house. It never failed that upon entering her back door, which walked directly into her kitchen, she would have been cooking or baking something. If she wasn't, she was doing the dishes because she had just finished cooking or baking something. Her home always smelled sweet.

Awhile back, Grandma had a beautiful vegetable garden that she was so proud of and loved to show off. She would tend to the tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and most importantly, pumpkins. She never gave up on a poor little vegetable that wasn't doing well and always took on the challenge to nurse it back to health. She did this successfully time and time again.

She had herbs planted around her yard in random places. I will never forget how she taught me to be careful when planting mint because it will take over your yard. Even though I already knew this, I planted mint at my home in Santa Fe and it took over all of the wild flowers. I remember her visiting and telling me that I should have listened to her, but I just love to have the mint wherever it wants to be. I also had mint outside my door in California recently. It was there when I moved in and I remember thinking that was my Grandma watching over me. When I was a young child, my Grandma would pinch the bottom of the mint plant, run her fingers up the stalk to remove all of the leaves and rub them in her hands. She would put her hands to my nose and it smelled like peppermint candy or Doublemint gum. And then I would do the same thing, copying her. It is amazing to me how one scent can bring back a lifetime of memories. Fresh mint does this for me every time I smell some. It reminds me of the time I have spent with my Grandma and her connection with the Earth. I still cannot help but run the mint over my hands whenever I run across some.

One of my Grandma's many talents is to remember recipes. She never seems to write one down and every time she bakes something, it tastes exactly the same as it did the last time you ate it. I don't know how she does this. And she never willingly shares the recipes with you either- and if you try to duplicate a recipe you will never come close to the same outcome, even if you have watched her closely and took notes. Take it from one who has tried this strategy... over and over.

Each fall, my Grandma's kitchen transforms into a bakery more like a factory. Early in the morning, she runs to the grocery for her last-minute supplies and heads back home to start her famous Pumpkin Breads and Applesauce Cakes. Sometimes she would use the pumpkins in her garden versus the canned variety, but no matter what, it always tastes the same. I don't know how to cook with fresh pumpkin, I have tried and cannot get the same flavor that she does. I finally have given up and go for the canned pumpkin.

After several weeks of baking, she packages them up. Each bread goes into a foil tin and wrapped in plastic wrap. She ties the package carefully with beautiful ribbons- orange for pumpkin and red for applesauce. Sometimes she will put a turkey sticker or a pumpkin sticker on top of the plastic. There comes the time close to Thanksgiving where you can start looking for the mailman for your package from Grandma. You pray it arrives safely, because she told you it is on its way, and you run to the kitchen with the box. When you open the box, you can find remnants from Grandma's house. A pine cone. A pine branch. Some fresh rosemary. And one time, I got a fresh basil plant to root on my kitchen windowsill. When she has fresh jalapenos from her plant, she will dry them for me and include those as well. She will recycle an old Halloween or Thanksgiving card onto construction paper, write a little note and always sign it "Enjoy!" Which I do.

I cherish my Grandmother's fall bread deliveries and anyone who drops by my house that day finds it to be one of their luckier days, because no matter how much she sends, it is gone before the sun sets.

The Scotch Egg and Jeff

My friend Jeff was the Assistant Manager at An Open Book and from what I can remember, he was solely responsible for the "kids" we hired to work part time and also the periodicals section. When he started working there, we had a sizable amount of magazines on two 4' racks that had 6 tiers. A few months into his gig, we had 6 of those racks with magazines from around the world. Jeff actually took customer requests, found new distributors in the process and became a periodical pro in no time.

If you don't know much about the magazine business, it would be interesting for you to know that the average profit on a magazine without subtracting any overhead expenses is about 17%. So on a $3.95 magazine, you're talking about 67 cents. If you subtract the square footage it took up, the lighting over it, the staff to stock them, the staff & postage to return the unsold issues, and accounting, you are left with approximately negative one dollar. But we loved the magazine section because it brought in tons of street traffic since we had them visible from the windows. We also loved it because we never had to buy a magazine. We just waited until the old ones came down and we only had to send the distributor the old covers, so we were left with stacks of cover less magazines. This was fun if you took a stack home because you would never know which magazine you were reading until you got a few pages in.

Jeff and I became fast friends and we are very much friends now, albeit we live in opposite corners of the country. He is actually like a brother to me. Looking back at the time we spent together, I realize now that we spent enormous amounts of money on nothing. We went for happy hours frequently after work that did not end until the wee hours of the morning. We went for crazy dinners and lunches at nearby restaurants and purchased expensive clothes that you could only wear once to the club only leaving us to buy more the following week.

Our favorite place to go was Mac's Cafe on High Street. Mac's was visible from my apartment and you didn't even have to cross the street to get there. Typically we only liked eating there if we could get one of the few booths in the back smoking section and the waitresses generally knew that if we walked in, we would wait for the booth if we had to. We ate there so often and I remember us trying to resist it's calling. Sometimes, I would even go to Mac's directly from working out at the gym. So much for those burned calories...

We always placed an appetizer and drink order immediately. Usually the appetizer was potato skins or nachos. We would say things like, "let's just get the nachos and we'll split those," but we both knew once we got there, we had to get the crazy Mac Burger. We never got out of Mac's for less than fifty bucks and that is on the low side.

The Mac Burger was an original- it was an ordinary cheeseburger until they piled coleslaw on top and made it very messy to eat. It was delicious! More important was the portion of fries that came with your order- picture an entire 5lb bag of frozen fries. On a plate. It was not uncommon to think the waitress put your order in wrong because you got a plate of fries instead. After you ate three servings of fries, you would uncover the burger and were lucky if you could finish half. Sometimes we would stop and smoke a cigarette a few times before continuing on with our plates.

On the appetizer menu at Mac's was the Scotch Egg. The description read: "A hard-boiled egg, packed in sausage, deep-fried, and served with a sour cream sauce." Sounds like a heart-attack waiting to happen, although with the nachos and french fries, I'm not sure that was our biggest concern. We always laughed when we saw the Scotch Egg on the menu and threatened each other that we would order it. We never saw it come out of the kitchen and after eating there for a couple of years, we finally asked the staff if anyone ever ordered the egg. They said, "No, not really, but the owner keeps it on there because it's his favorite."

We never ordered the Scotch Egg. Until...I got up to use the restroom on one of our last trips to Mac's and I came back to a giant blob of deep-fried sausage on my side of the booth. Jeff had ordered me the Scotch Egg. I think I fell under the table laughing. We played around with it for a bit, guessing that it weighed a few pounds before I dug in and ate it. I have to say, it was quite delicious and I remember eating the entire thing because Jeff wouldn't touch it.

The best thing about eating anywhere with Jeff is that he loves to do that whole make-you-laugh thing when you have food in your mouth. We had many moments of food across the table, soda in your nose and there were a few pissed-off customers around us. But the lunches and dinners at Mac's with Jeff were among my favorites. And I'm so glad I tried the Scotch Egg.

Beige Food and Brian M.

When I filled out my roommate preferences before my parents dropped me off in New York City at the Parsons dorm, I had some very strong preferences. The biggest of these was that I did not want to room with anyone that smoked. I also wanted to room with art students because even though I enrolled in the Design Marketing program, I really wanted to be in one of the art programs. I don't know if I just didn't have the confidence to try to enroll or if I just figured that the business classes would be a safer route. So, yes, it's true- I went to art school for business classes. I still got to take many of the design classes, though, but I always knew that my career would end up being something in the fashion retail spectrum. The unfortunate thing is that after a few months at college, we all began to smoke. Including me.

My three roommates were Ritchie and two Brians. Brian C actually shared my bedroom and he became one of my best friends at school. Ritchie and the other Brian- Brian M., shared the other room. We all shared the mini-kitchen and bathroom right outside of our doors. Having been to other dorm rooms and since lived in a few Manhattan apartments, I realize now that this dorm was actually one of the nicer ones out there.

After being at school for a few months, there was a big circle of friends that would often hang out in our room and it seemed like there was never a moment to myself. We always cooked in the kitchen- usually things we picked up at the corner grocery, Gristede's. I ate a lot of boxed foods like macaroni and cheese, ramen noodles, and maybe some sandwiches. Rarely did I have money to eat out, but I did make a splurge from time to time. More often than not, my splurge was my daily trip to the street vendor for a bagel with cream cheese and hot chocolate. Bagels from NY street vendors come with the best rectangular slab of delicious cream cheese. At the time, they were only 75 cents or a dollar, I think and I could afford to get the hot chocolate and the bagel for under two bucks. This would last me through our four-hour Life Drawing class believe it or not- I took tiny sips and left it on my desk during our smoke breaks to be sure it lasted me the entire time.

Sometimes my Mom would send me care packages- usually canned goods or more boxes of mac n cheese, cup o' noodles, and my favorite, Nutty Bars. I remember thinking that my Mom probably spent more money shipping this stuff than she did on the actual food. It was nice though because she would include little cards from my sisters, some pictures and any mail that came to my parents house. Sometimes she would throw in a magazine for me and it just felt comforting to know that she was there. Her care packages usually showed up at the exact moment that I ran out of money and feared not eating for a few days.

Inevitably, I would go to use my little kitchenette to find it to be a disaster. The stove would be covered in a greasy film, along with everything nearby: the toaster, the refrigerator, the coffeepot, and the cabinets. Everything- covered in oil. Brian M. was constantly in the kitchen and usually frying potatoes. He would fry potatoes in the wee hours of the morning, again for lunch and often for dinner. He would usually hang out in his room and never seemed to have friends over. In retrospect, I imagine that it was probably difficult for him to room with three other guys, all gay, when he was straight. He was a photography major and he was rather easy going, but still, it must not have been the best time of his life. A typical photographer, he had a long, greasy ponytail and seemed to have a uniform of long sleeve, dark gray shirts and denim.

One time, Brian M. was sitting at the kitchen table eating toast and fried potatoes. Brian C. sat down right beside him and said, "Brian, why are you always frying potatoes?" in his southern accent, reminiscent of Julia Sugarbaker. He answered, "I like potatoes. I like toast. In fact, I really only prefer foods that are beige." Brian said, "Really. Beige. You only eat beige food." He said, "Yes, I don't eat anything that has a color." Brian replied, "Interesting."

Brian C. ran into the bedroom with me, closed the door, jumped on the bed and we exploded with hysterical laughter for about a half hour before calling everyone we knew to tell them that the other Brian ONLY eats beige food. Soon this became well-known with our friends and they used to drop by and see Brian frying up his potatoes. Sometimes they would refrain from laughing long enough to ask him all about his food habits. Eventually he would get to the part where he would confirm that yes, he only eats beige food. Lots of times though, they would walk in, see him eating beige food, and run directly into our bedroom to start laughing.

Fruit Salad and Gram

I remember going to my Gram's house and she would always have a freezer full of frozen dinners. She always said she didn't ever have anyone to cook for, so why bother. There were a couple of times though, that I remember Gram cooking. Gram is my Mom's mother. Mom is the oldest of six kids, so you can imagine Gram has done her fair share of cooking well before I came along.

When we moved to Connecticut, sometimes Gram would come visit us for the holidays and she would get there before Christmas Eve. This allowed her to drive with us as we looked at the Christmas lights on houses. My parents would drive us around for a few hours staring at the lights, making the same comments every year:

"I don't really like all red lights."
"Remember how we used to use those big bulbs? So glad we switched to the smaller ones."
"They have all of those 'lectronic lights that keep moving- it's too busy."
"Look at that house- look at it- all of the lights are being held up by one piece of duct tape!"
"Why would they put a wreath in every window and not on the door?"

Then my Mom would make one of us kids jump out of the car to put an award in their mailbox. The award could be 1st, 2nd or 3rd place. It could be brightest, most creative or most lights. They were all written out on construction paper. Sometimes we glued old Christmas cards to the paper. We always signed them, "The Carter Family." As if these people who lived several miles from our home knew who we were. But it was a nice way of spreading cheer and letting people know that someone, somewhere appreciated their efforts. I'm surprised she didn't make us ring the doorbell and sing Christmas carols. Later on, I think my Mom got more sophisticated with the awards, printing them out on a computer.

Then Gram would help us unwrap our gifts on Christmas morning, help us put new things together, pick up all of the crumpled wrapping paper and would just be a part of our family. Not many people came to visit us in Connecticut, it seemed and it was so nice to see her and spend time with her.

When Mom was still cooking Christmas dinner, Gram would offer to make the fruit salad and she would ask me to help. Gram made the best fruit salad and I never had anything like it since. It had all kinds of fruit, a creamy sauce, and even those little miniature marshmallows. My Mom would also make the fruit salad if Gram was not there and she would also make it on important holidays like Thanksgiving and Easter. Oddly, we never made the fruit salad just because we felt like making fruit salad- we only made it on the holidays for these big dinners.

She took several cans of fruit cocktail and dumped them in the bowl. She sliced bananas and added them to the mix. Then she asked me to head to the fridge for the mayonnaise. Mayonnaise? Wha? There's mayonnaise in fruit salad? I asked her if she was sure a few times and she promised me that it was the ingredient, as she started laughing. We scooped the mayo into the bowl and added the miniature marshmallows. I tasted it and sure enough, this was the fruit salad that I loved and the one she always made. Who knew you could mix mayonnaise with fruit? I am sure it is not recommended by nutritionists everywhere, but it sure does taste delicious! I remember that before she chilled it in the fridge, I made a small bowl for myself, covered it with plastic wrap and hid it on the back of the shelf. This way, once I had seconds at dinner, and all of the fruit salad was gone, I would still have a back-up.

Not very long ago, I remember talking to Gram on one Mother's Day. She told me that she had started her very own vegetable garden. I was surprised to hear that and happy that she would start a hobby. I asked her what she did with all of the vegetables. She said that she eats them! I was elated to hear that my Gram uses her kitchen and not just her microwave.

I still make Gram's fruit salad on occasion, often omitting the marshmallows now, because somehow it seems like more of a grown-up version without them.

Now & Laters and JFK

When I started John F Kennedy Middle School in Enfield, CT, I had to walk to school. I think we must have been one of the very last streets that required you to walk and it was a shorter walk in the opposite direction to catch the bus. I preferred to walk though because I didn't like the other kids at the bus stop. There was Keena who always wore the same acid-washed denim jacket and lime-green, neon leg warmers. Her hair was flat on top but teased out on the sides with lots of hairspray holding it together. She wore a lot of make up.

Then there was Chris. He used to be my best friend in sixth grade, but then he also resorted to acid-wash denim and a shaved head, rocker look that never quite worked because he was only about five feet tall. His favorite band was Heart, though, so I always held a little respect for Chris. Richie and his sister Becky went to private school but somehow ended up at the public school bus stop. I think they used to skip and hang out in the alley at the public school. They all smoked and I hated smoke.

They used to make fun of me for so many reasons- mainly because I would wear my preppy sweaters with a popped polo collar underneath and I liked my penny loafers. This phase of my fashion sense ended quickly when I got caught up in the goth/art crowd in high school two years later. Then my dress code became all black. But until then, I could pull off a United Colors of Benetton sweater in yellow. Or peach. Or even better, pink.

All of this fashion clashing, topped with nerdy purple glasses, and braces did not work well for me at the bus stop. It was best to just walk. I had to walk a little over a mile and about halfway there was the real reason to walk. Dairy Mart and Southwood Pharmacy on Raffia Road. Here, we could pick up all of the magazines we needed for the day- GQ, Rolling Stone, and People. Also a giant bag of candy and a cherry coke.

One day, I picked up a pack of Now & Laters- cherry. Now & Laters came in little packs of four. They were individually wrapped within the package. You could get them in banana, cherry, strawberry, grape, tropical punch, apple, vanilla and chocolate. This taffy would last you a while at school because it would stick to your teeth and you couldn't get it off if you bit down on it.

Sitting in Mrs. Langlois' class for English, one of my friends, sitting next to me asked if they could have a Now & Later after seeing me slip one in my mouth. Uhh, no. I only have two left. She said, "I will give you a dollar for it." Thinking that she was joking, I figured it's okay even if she doesn't give me the dollar because I would still have at least one left. But she did give me the dollar and it changed my life forever.

Soon, I began advertising through word of mouth that I walked to school and could stop and get Now & Laters. I would pick up four packs for about a dollar and could sell them to desperate bus-riding students for a dollar. This was an amazing profit. I was happy to do them the favor. Eventually I had a pocket full of little slips of paper with everyone's order on them and the lady at the Dairy Mart would think I was a sugar addict. Little did she know, I was. This allowed me to buy whatever candy I wanted each day on top of my favorite magazines.

I did this the entire time I was at JFK Middle School and probably made hundreds of dollars and wasted it on Dairy Mart merchandise. Well, until I got to be Vice President of Student Council. Oh no. Wait. I ran for Vice President and I didn't win. But Miss Gademan, the librarian and advisor, really wanted me to be on there, so she let be on the council as the Liason. The Assistant Principal called me in the office one day to let me know they created this new position just for me. On the student council, they asked what needs the school had. Nobody said anything. Miss Gademan called on me to respond. I couldn't think of anything either and everyone was just staring at me while eating their Now & Laters I sold them the day before. I got nervous. I said, "A school store."

And so now at that JFK Middle School, there is a beautiful school store in the cafeteria that sells tons of stuff that kids don't need. So now I'm sure they still stock Now & Laters and there is no chance for a walking student to make a little extra cash.

Cake and Mom

Birthdays were an extraordinary occurrence in my family's household. My mother went overboard with the detailed invitations, decorations, games and prizes. As I have mentioned, you would pick a theme and Mom would run with it. One time she had a birthday party for me that included a scavenger hunt through the neighborhood that went several blocks, into the woods and down the creek. It lasted two hours.

The most celebrated part of our birthday parties was Mom's cakes.

Mom took a cake decorating class with our neighbor, Linda and suddenly, both of their kitchens turned into full-fledged bakeries. People would request an insane cake design and my Mom and Linda were up for the challenge. Orders began piling in. We were a birthday cake factory and we were in business. I believe this was a Wilton Cake Decorating class, now hosted at retailers like Michael's, but then hosted in department store settings, like JC Penney. It probably was JC Penney. And on an important side note, my Mom has always referred to this store as Pennies, as many moms do.

Prior to the cake school, our birthday cakes were delicious, but simple. After cake school, Batman could be a surprise guest at your party. When they made the Batman cake, I remember the buttercream icing being a pewter gray color and it would turn your teeth black. There is no other icing that has this high of a sugar ratio- I know this because I checked. They purchased really fun character cake pans and would recreate them to look just like the picture. Sometimes they designed their own using coloring books from the "client." They would bake a sheet cake and place the picture they wanted to copy on top and outline the design with toothpicks. When you pulled out the toothpicks and took off the paper, you had easy shapes to fill in with different color icings. It's interesting to me how far people would stretch with their cake design. They would give my Mom a little napkin or a sticker and say, "Can you copy this?"

Mom and Linda would stay up all hours of the night to complete a cake. Usually for another family member or friend. A lot of times, one of them would have to mix up another batch of icing while the other continued piping. Sometimes the icing got too warm from their hands and they would stick all of the pastry bags in the fridge to harden it up and make it easier to pipe. I used to try to sneak a taste before they pulled them back out. It never worked because inevitably I always chose the time they had the red or blue icing in the fridge and it always dyed my lips and teeth that color and it would get me in trouble. Who knows how many cakes they served where I actually licked the frosting first.

I remember thinking that I wanted to stay up to see the end of the Barbie cakes but it was way past my bedtime and I fell asleep. The next morning, when I went into the kitchen, there were what seemed to be a hundred different colored pastry bags with leftover icing, little tupperware bowls with remnants of mixing colors and toothpicks all over the kitchen counter. It looked like Barbie had gotten a little sick and threw up in the sink.

But when I saw the cakes later that day- they were beautiful dresses with little heads with hair popping out of them. One of them pink, the other yellow and one purple. I remember thinking that even I wanted a Barbie cake for my birthday. I wonder if they could have recreated Ken in his camouflage costume...

A few years after the cake decorating began, my Mom was driving us kids to the babysitter's house in the early winter morning before work. Her old Ford Galaxy let her down and stopped in the middle of a snow storm. We were all forced to walk on the side of the street. My Mom was carrying my baby sister and I was holding my brother's hand. She slipped on a patch of ice, fell to the concrete and never dropped my sister the entire time. She did end up injuring her wrist very badly and would see the effects a little later on. We did make it to the babysitter's, but my Mom would never be the same. She made countless trips to the doctor because she was in so much pain.

I remember how much trouble she had using her hand after the injury with so many things that she loved to do.... one of those things was piping beautifully colored icing onto kids' birthday cakes.