Musician's Bread (For Tea or Breakfast)

As I write, the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread is filling the house. It is amazing how that can instantly make one feel that all is right with the world.

Typically just the thought of making bread is a bit off-putting for me. Not only am I not a fan of kneading dough for half the day, I also am not a fan of putting so much time and energy (and flour) into something that may or may not be very good. I am the first to admit that I have not mastered the art (or is it a science?) of baking bread. Much to my chagrin, too, as my mother used to be a master bread maker when we were growing up. (She even used to grind her own wheat!)

And that is why I find myself this afternoon making bread for the second time in four days. Sophie Dahl's recipe is shockingly, almost scandalously, easy. All you do is mix everything up, give it a good stir, proof it, give it another stir, let it proof again, and bake. No kneading required — just a handy-dandy wooden spoon will do the trick. Also, thanks to the invention of instant yeast, it is relatively fast.

So anyway, as I made breakfast on Saturday morning, I thought it would also be a good time to get the bread going, with the idea that it would be fabulous to have later in the day. My newest trick (just learned on an episode of Cooks Country) is to put anything that needs to raise in the oven. All you do is this: turn the oven to 200°, right when it hits 200°, turn it off, put your dough in the middle of the oven and set about your other business. It works beautifully, too, particularly in a house that seems to run on the so cold go put a winter cardigan on even if it's July mode. While utilizing this brilliant trick on Saturday, I was also using the oven as a pancake warmer. When I reached in to get said pancakes for a very hungry little girl and her dad, I was rather annoyed, to say the least, to see that half the bread dough had fallen on top of our breakfast. I ended up tossing most of the pancakes out while trying to salvage the bread. (Thank goodness I still had lots of pancake batter left. And bacon, for that matter.)

One of the hazards (other than ruining your breakfast) of using your oven for proofing is what to do with whatever happens to be raising in the oven when you need to be pre-heating the very same oven. (I swear, I want two ovens in our next house! Oh, and maybe a bit more drawer space.) For some reason or another, it had seemed like a marvelous (and by marvelous, I mean desperate) idea to simply pre-heat the oven while the bread was still raising in it. Bad idea, I know. I'm open to suggestions. What happens is that the bread comes out terribly flat on the top and I'm sure all sorts of other scientific things happen as well. But even Miss Dahl's looks flat on the top. It just isn't so noticeable when it is placed in what looks like the middle of a gorgeous Anthropologie photo spread.

We ate the disastrous loaf of bread Saturday afternoon with lots of butter and steaming bowls of soup. Then we ate the rest Sunday morning for breakfast. Michael kept saying, 'what a nice little breakfast!', much to my vain heart's delight. And, strangely enough, I totally agreed. Despite the troublesome process, the bread was really very good. Even Emilia liked it. We toasted it with butter and jam, had little cups of yogurt, and broiled papaya with lime (also from Sophie Dahl's cookbook). Not to mention cup after cup of strong tea (for me), strong coffee (for Michael), and plenty of smiles from Miss Milia's happy and jam-covered little face.

The newest loaves have just come out of the oven. They still look slightly wonky, but I'm alright with that.

Le Chameau & Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights

Michael was thumbing through Food & Wine sometime last month when he stopped and asked me, 'What did Roald Dahl write again?' (Seriously, how can he not know that?) 'Anyway, his granddaughter has written a new cookbook.' My curiosity was piqued for about 10 seconds before I decided to just dismiss the whole thought. Yes, Sophie Dahl is a beauty, kind of in the manner of a 1920s silent-film actress — only much more buxom. And she has published a few works of fiction, not to mention writing the preface to the new edition of Stella Gibbon's Nightingale Wood (which I still have not read, although Cold Comfort Farm was spectacular). But really, why must famous people write cookbooks? It is almost as annoying as when celebrities think they should be 'political consultants' or something. Why can't they just stick with what they know? Alright, I will climb off of my soap-box now.

As I sat in front of the computer late one night using all of my cherished Amazon giftcards on cookbooks, for some reason or another, I decided to get Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights. After all, it was getting decent reviews. And what do you know? It would appear that Miss Dahl (actually now Mrs. as she just married Jamie Cullum... what? I'm not allowed to pay attention to these things?) knows quite a bit about cooking. Well, I'll eat my hat.

Speaking of hats, she may also have become my latest fashion icon. As I sat thumbing through her book, my eyes were continually drawn to the fabulous pair of wellies she is sporting throughout. Basic dark green rubber wellies, mid-calf in length, with a logo I did not recognize. Hmmm.

Over the past few years I seem to have developed an aversion to winter shoes, meaning I don't love shoes that require me to wear socks. Instead, I've become quite the fan of the ballet flat and the flip-flop, not to mention everything else in between. Otherwise my Puma sneakers have strangely done the trick. (Sorry, not chasing a 2-year-old around the house in 4" stilettos. Not this week anyway.)

What can I say? We live in the Pacific Northwest where the weather is thought to be mild. However, it does rain a bit and can get quite cold, so going sock-less in the winter months is daft, to say the least. Wellington boots are a great choice. (Miss Milia loves her ladybug boots, because she knows darn well that she is the height of fashion. Besides, she just learned to put them on herself.) Hunter have become extraordinarily (if not preposterously) popular. But I refuse to wear them until they either slip back under the radar or become terribly unfashionable. Besides, they are rather tall, and really, that's a whole lot of rubber to have round your leg. I've also seen too many girls running around in their Hunter's with Juicy Sweatsuits and little dogs in their handbags.

And so, using my carrot eyes, I managed to spy the name of the boot Miss Dahl is wearing. Le Chameau. That's right, they're French! Now I really, really love them! And they are also nearly half the price of Hunter's. (Although once you throw UK shipping onto the bill, it probably comes out even.) Anyway, they came in the mail a few days ago. Emilia helped me open them up and then we both took turns modeling them.

In the meantime, it has been pouring rain here for the past few days, so it is perfect timing, really. Yesterday we both put on our rainboots and went to the grocery store so we could stock up on all the necessary ingredients to make a few dishes from my new (and dare I say lovely?) cookbook. And even though I can't pull off the look, in the manner of Sophie Cullum (née Dahl) that is, I'm hoping I can at least pull off a few of her recipes.

Stay tuned for the recipes, I'm hoping to knock them out this weekend. In the meantime, go buy yourself a nice copy of Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights and a pair of Hunter wellies. It simply won't do having my new fabulous Le Chameau's becoming ubiquitous. If you don't mind, that is.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

Let me just say this, I adore Flavia de Luce. And The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is impeccable. I had not even heard of this book before Christmas, when my lovely brother gave a copy of it to me. I quietly sat, taking off the wrapping paper, reading the back, and then, for some reason or another, I got all huffy. 'Why have I never heard of this? It makes no sense! It is completely down my alley!' Which is true. If I actually owned an alley, you can rest assured, this book would be smack on it.

And so, once I finished my other 'Alan' book (The Clothes They Stood Up In & The Lady in the Van, which was magnificent, by the way -- as was The Uncommon Reader), I picked it up. And right off, I began wondering. Must one actually be called Alan in order to be a brilliant writer? It begs to be asked. Because I was only a few pages in when, again, I got all huffy and began demanding to know why I cannot, in fact, write like that. It is very annoying! Anyway, I digress. Let's get back to Flavia, shall we?

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie takes place in a small village in England during the summer of 1950. Flavia de Luce is eleven years old. She is obsessed with chemistry (poisons in particular) and is shockingly bright. Flavia has two older sisters, Daphne and Ophelia, with whom she is consistently trying to 'get back', as it were. Nothing too terrible, just injecting Poison Ivy into her sister's tube of lipstick and then anxiously watching for the results, for example.

Anyway, without giving too much away, a death occurs late one night at Buckshaw, the old castle where the de Luce family lives, and has for centuries. Shortly thereafter, Flavia's father is taken in to custody. Flavia then sets off (quite literally, as she rides her bike Gladys practically throughout the whole of the English countryside) to get to the bottom of it. It's marvelous. And parts of the book will make you roar with laughter.

I suppose I could sit here all day recounting scene after scene in order to illustrate this point, but alas, this chair is too hard. Besides, I think you should just read the book. That being said, I cannot resist but two scenes in particular.

Mrs. Mullet is a terrible cook, which is unfortunate as that is her job with the de Luce family. She also drives Flavia batty. However, she has been with the family for so long, and so on and so forth... Anyway, while the Inspector interviews Flavia, Mrs. Mullet brings her some seed biscuits and milk. 'Seed biscuits and milk! I hated Mrs. Mullets seed biscuits the way Saint Paul hated sin. Perhaps even more so. I wanted to clamber up onto the table, and with a sausage on the end of my fork as my scepter, shout in my best Laurence Olivier voice, "Will no one rid me of this turbulent pastry cook?"'

And the scene in church (pages 114-115, if you are interested) is beyond perfect. Apparently the de Luce's have been Catholics 'since Chariot races were all the rage.' However, they go to St. Tancred's Anglican Church because it is so much more convenient. Oh, I can't do it justice. After all, my name isn't Alan, so what do you want? Just go and read it yourself. You will nearly cry with laughter. And if you don't then you have no sense of humor.

Anyway, the next Flavia de Luce installment is hot off the press. I very happily discovered my copy in the mailbox today. (The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag, with a picture of a 'cary 'keleton on the front, as Miss Milia pointed out.) And I simply cannot wait.

Rouge Coco (And a Brief History of Cosmetics in the US)

My moleskin notebook was filled up ages ago, and as much as I loved the little thing, I've taken to writing in a spiral notebook (very similar to the ones used during my university years: one subject with a fat pocket in the front). Anyway, I pulled it out a week or so ago and, as I opened it up, a whole pile of magazine and newspaper clippings showered my feet.

I used to be a magazine fiend in my earlier days, and would hoard stack after stack around our old apartments and such. I suppose it was kind of in the manner of those two crazy brothers in New York who filled, quite literally, their whole apartment with old newspapers they refused to throw out. And when they finally died, it was hard just to get into the place to retrieve their bodies. Or something like that anyway.

Luckily for all involved my penchant for magazine reading has waned quite drastically over the years, as my taste has become much more discerning. And rather than create an obstacle course throughout the house, I now tear out single pages from magazines to save, and toss the rest in recycling. (All cooking magazines are exempt from this discussion. As are Garnet Hill, Olive Juice, and Boden catalogs.) Anyway, on the top of this little stack of clippings was a very recent write-up on Chanel's new line of lipsticks that are being introduced this month: Rouge Coco. Very exciting news, indeed.

Several months ago there was a marvelous PBS documentary on the telly called The Powder and the Glory. It was all about the two women who essentially pioneered womens cosmetics in the United States: Helena Rubinstein and Elizabeth Arden. It was fascinating. First of all, the two women were vicious competitors and loathed eachother unequivocally. They even refused to ever meet, despite the fact that they lived a block or two away from each other in New York City. Aside from that, it is all about the making of the cosmetic industry in this country. Elizabeth Arden became best known for her Twelve Hour Cream, her Red Door Spas, and a rather nasty disposition; while Rubinstein became known for her Crème Valaze, art and jewelry collection, and quick-witted tongue. Despite being very upscale for the time (and therefore expensive), both businesses weathered the great depression brilliantly. Yes, they both had to close a few shops here and there, but that is nothing considering the time.

How did they do this, you ask? Lipstick. I find it so interesting that in times of recession women will consistently splash out on a decent tube of lipstick. And I'm not talking about Revlon, to be sure, but something much nicer. It makes complete sense, really. No, you cannot take that trip to, I don't know, St. Moritz or something. And it may not be in your best interest to get your hair done every other week while wearing that new Burberry trench. But a new tube of lipstick? Well, that's a different story then, now isn't it? It is a small, simple luxury that makes you feel, not to mention look, a whole lot better. Thank goodness for that. And this brings me back to the glorious Chanel.

The Rouge Coco line that has just hit the counters definitely falls into this category. It will make you feel better just seeing it in your handbag. (Try to tell me that their logo does not put a smile on your face. And I'll know if you're lying.) The concept behind it is harkening back to the days when lipstick was a huge deal; before everyone became obsessed with these silly glosses. The line takes us back to the days of Coco Chanel herself, which was not actually that long ago. They have brought back original and classic colors, and given them names that all mean something within the brand. For instance, one of the lipsticks is called 'Gabrielle', which was Chanel's real name — Coco was just a nickname. And they have reinstated the metal tube, as opposed to plastic. (This is certainly a selling point for me. However, my other Chanel's seem to look exactly the same. And no, it is not because they are originals, thank you very much.)

And so, even though I need another tube of lipstick like a need a hole in the head, Emilia and I found ourselves at the Chanel counter Monday morning. We both tried some on (glides on like a dream, by the way) and settled on two colors: Mademoiselle and Lune Rousse. The latter is my personal favorite as it happens to look spectacular on me. Red always does though. And there you go, a little bit of old-fashioned glamour (that still doesn't grow on trees), but puts a big (nicely painted) smile right across my face.

***As a side note: The movie Coco Before Chanel is marvelous and completely worth watching. I saw it one night last week while Michael had a late meeting. Audrey Tatou is perfect, and the movie is visually stunning from beginning to end. That's my two cents, anyway.

Our Little Tomato Turns Two

I can't believe it. Emilia turned two years old on Sunday. Where does the time go? (Oh dear, I am now officially in the group of old people who stand around bemoaning the passage of time all day. You know what I am talking about. The people who every time you leave the house feel it is their duty to tell you that your little one will be all grown up and moved out of the house before you can blink an eye. Very annoying, really. That being said, it is a valid question. Where does the time go?) Emilia is growing up so fast. And I cannot even begin to tell you how blessed I feel to be such a part of it. My mom always tells me, 'You'd never think there was such a girl before!'

As we drove home from our errands a few days ago, Emilia sat in the backseat of the car saying, 'Mia makes mama so gateful!' To be perfectly honest, before this little girl was born, I did not know what it was to feel truly grateful. I knew what the word meant, obviously, and I felt gratitude as much as I was apparently capable. However, it was this little life that totally, completely, and utterly changed my life, and gave me a true understanding of what it is to be grateful. In doing so, it has changed nearly every other aspect of my life.

I have always absolutely loved and adored my own mother, and have been beyond thankful for her. But even my appreciation of her has changed since Emilia was born. I suppose that being a mother has made me fully grateful for my own mother. Not to mention my lovely husband. And my dad. And my sister. And all of my family. And my religion. And everyone else in my life. (Alright, I'll curb it. I do realize this is teetering dangerously toward new levels of cheesiness, so I suspect it may be best simply to move on. But sometimes these things should/need to be said!)

And so, back to Sunday. After church we made a 'beautiful pink birthday cake.' Again, Emilia stood on the chair and was 'a very big help to her mother.' When it came to making the pink frosting, Michael and I both got very scared. Who knows how many spoonfuls she got into her mouth before the frosting was taken out of her reach. (Really, it is an awful lot of sugar [and butter] going straight into the blood stream!) However, she was more than delighted with the end result.

Once we'd finished with the cake, and Emilia opened her soccer ball ('a real one!'), a tea set, and a doll stroller from Grandma and Grandpa, we hopped in the car on our way to Aunt Kari's house for dinner — balancing a pink cake on my lap on the way. We had a grand time with the family, and Emilia absolutely worships her cousins.

As far as the cake was concerned, it was passable. Don't get me wrong, Emilia loved it and ate every bite (as did we). It was so sweet and pink and buttery, how could she not? However, I must have completely botched the recipe, because the two cake layers were like pound cake. Good, but not even close to being right. I suppose this is one of the many hazards one encounters trying to bake and be in charge of damage control at the same time. It is not easy when your now two-year-old is all hopped up on frosting, standing on a tall chair, and insisting on putting her little hands into everything, mind you. Now then, what was I just saying about being grateful?

The frosting recipe came from the Magnolia Cookbook. And the cake recipe came from Cooks Illustrated. Cooks Illustrated rated it as the best yellow cake recipe ever. Because I bombed it, I will not include the recipe here. Rather, let me try it again before I provide you with the details. You may have to wait awhile though, Emilia has had three different birthday cakes over the past week, so we may need to switch to a strict diet of green salads and lentils for awhile. Even though Trophy Cupcakes has already begun to sing our names...thanks Mom and David, 'and Yoo-gar, too!' We love you all so much.

Rooibos for Runners

A few weeks ago Miss Milia and I went out for one of our usual runs in the jogger. Emilia was snug as a bug with her hat, mittens, sunglasses, cozy pink blanket, statue of St. Gerard (which she will not go without), and a tattered copy of the MiniBoden catalog. It was cold, but a gorgeously sunny day — perfect for running, really. And because of this, I opted for the longer (and much hillier) route; taking us past a beautiful view of the Space Needle, the Olympics, all of Bellevue and Seattle, and Lake Washington. It is so beautiful where we live sometimes!

Anyway, as I'm huffing and puffing along, and Emilia is singing away at the top of her lungs, I looked down at her wares and noticed that her hands were bare. Naturally I began shouting (over the top of both her music and my i-pod), 'Milia, where is your other mitten?' It was gone; she had tossed it overboard. That meant that we got to go back over all the hilly bits, nearly keeling over from exhaustion, mind you, so we could find it. On the bright side, we got to see that spectacular view once again, and I got to listen to Emilia say (the rest of the way home), 'Mia twerp!' Alas, she was right.

Anyway, as it turns out, I've got this absurd disorder (Or is it an ailment? Actually, I think they call it a phenomenon), where I break out into hives whenever I go running. This would not be a problem, as it were, if I were not a runner. However, I love running. It is one of those activities that helps me get through the day. And it is, hands down, the single best thing for stress-management. Plus, if you have a small penchant for cupcakes and the like, running a few miles may definitely be in order, if not necessary.

However, ever since I can remember, I have had this rather bizarre 'phenomenon' following me around. I even remember it happening when I would walk home from school as a kid. The absolute worst of it occured when we lived in Haddonfield, NJ. I remember coming home from work, changing, grabbing my portable cd player (I was at the height of technology with that thing at the time), and running 6 to 8 miles. But I would always itch...and terribly so. There were times I would come home so angry and literally crying from frustration; my legs swollen and bleeding because, of course, I would scratch. I couldn't help myself. The marks would stay on my legs for ages, too. Nasty, right? Not to mention it being the most annoying thing in the world.

It took three doctors to diagnose me — hives urticaria. And all I needed to do was take a pile of antihistamines and be on my merry way. The only problem was that I hate to take any medication unless I am on death's door; not to mention the fact that taking allergy medication makes your allergy problems worse once you stop. So what was I to do? I simply stopped running.

Sitting in Queen Mary's Tea Room a handful of years ago with a few of the ladies in my family, I sat looking at a little menu/leaflet on Rooibos tea. I discovered that Rooibos is a red tea that comes from Africa, and does not have caffeine. (Incidentally, I also discovered that it is heavenly when mixed with Madagascar vanilla beans. I found this out because I demanded that my niece Grace let me have a sip of hers.) Anyway, as we all sat and sipped our respective teas and filled ourselves with sweet thing after sweet thing, I read of the many benefits that Rooibos tea supposedly has. The claims ranged from clearing up eczema, preventing cavities, treating allergies, and probably fixing a rather surly disposition, to boot. Shocking claims, if you ask me. So naturally I bought a little bag of it on our way out the door.

What can I say? It works. This spectacular little tea works. I drink it all the time. However, I have since learned to buy it bulk, and I have found a great site where you can buy it by the pound. I used to buy it from Whole Foods, but they kept switching containers. I would get home with a bag full of Good Hope Vanilla that smelled strangely of Blackberry Sage or something. Yuck.

Anyway, all these years later I am still delighted with this tea. It works for me. I literally don't worry about itching while running anymore, whereas it used to consume my thoughts as I trudged along the pavement. Now I just worry that Emilia is going to throw all her little things overboard causing me to have to run an extra mile or so in order to fetch them. And as much as I like to run, I have my limits, for crying out loud!

I Know How to Cook, by Ginette Mathiot

Look what just came in the mail today. I know, I know, it's already been out for months now. But to tell you the truth, it is a book that I was resisting. Don't get me wrong, I wanted it. It is a cookbook after all. But it is one of the new Phaidon Press publications. Let me explain.

For those of you who don't know, a few years ago Phaidon began publishing what are considered to be the quintessential (and best-selling) cookbooks from countries around the world. The first was The Silver Spoon, which has been Italy's best-selling cookbook for over 50 years (and one of the most popular wedding gifts in the country, if I remember correctly). And then there was 1080 Recipes from Spain, and Vefa's Kitchen from Greece; both best-sellers for over 30 years in their respective countries.

I have the Italian and Spanish books, and I actually really like them. I love the artwork in 1080 Recipes, in particular. However, neither is a book for which I continually reach. I have done a few pasta recipes from the The Silver Spoon and the tortilla española from 1080 Recipes, but I think that is it. Part of the problem may be that I have Italian cookbooks coming out my ears. And as for the Spanish, I seem to gravitate toward Penelope Casas.

When I think about it, each of the Phaidon cookbooks is essentially The Joy of Cooking done for the appropriate country. And please, do not bawk at this. The Joy of Cooking is actually an excellent cookbook with almost everything you need in it (within reason, of course), and it should not be dismissed. I suppose its biggest problem is that it is not hip or stylish ... by any means ... whatsoever. (I think Americans only really want cookbooks by celebrity chefs from the Food Network or something.) Admittedly, Mrs. Joy (as my beloved Ms. Child referred to it) is not a cookbook that I reach for on a regular basis (other than for pancakes and dutch babies, anyway), but it is an excellent publication. And this brings me back to today's mail.

I Know How to Cook by Ginette Mathiot (translated by the lovely Clotilde Dusoulier) looks marvelous. Yes, it is an overwhelming doorstop (like its sister publications), but it looks exceedingly well done. I may actually read quite a bit of it before delving into the recipes, and that is a good thing. It has section after section filled with glorious tidbits. They range from wine; seasonal food (this includes cheese and meat, which I find fascinating); entertaining; setting your table; a splendid section on herbal tea (yippee!); herbs and spices and souring agents; directions for making your own jam; menus by famous people I've generally never heard of; and several crêpe recipes. Not to mention the gorgeous artwork.

And so, with that in mind, I'm delighted with my new book. (Perversely, I also ordered it in French because, for some reason, I thought it would be fun. Seriously, what goes through my mind sometimes? That is a rhetorical question, by the way.)

'People who know how to eat are ten years younger than those to whom that science is a mystery.' —Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, Physiologie du goût, 1825 (Taken from the frontispiece in I Know How to Cook.)

My Early Rising Valentine

We returned home Friday night after a nearly two week 'tour of the eastern seaboard', as it were. After cancelled flights, cancelled trains, 2 feet of snow, and the flu all-around, we finally got out from Philadelphia. (Another story for another day, I'm sure.)

The time change is always hardest when traveling east, it seems. But it does get rather annoying when your daughter refuses to adjust back once you've returned home. (Usually Emilia waits until we get home before she finally decides to adjust to east coast time.) Although, it certainly served us well on Sunday.

A typical Sunday Chez Bindas is to get up, rush through breakfast and showers, and almost get to church at 11:00 on time. (No comments, please.) However, this Sunday Emilia woke up at 5:37 in the morning singing Simon & Garfunkel at the top of her lungs, and randomly yelling, 'Mama get you!'

So after a nice breakfast of pancakes and bacon, I decided to get started on our Valentine's Day cake. I also decided that Miss Milia was going to help. So we pulled a chair from the dining room table into the kitchen, perched her on it, and got started. She helped measure flour, sugar, and vanilla. She tossed the egg shells in the trash, tasted the cocoa powder, and whisked and whisked away with me. We had ourselves a grand time. And what do you know? Two layers of chocolate cake were left cooling on the wire racks as we slipped into church a few minutes early. That's right — early.

After nap-time we assembled the cake. We pulled the chair back into the kitchen, whipped cream, mashed raspberries, and made ganâche. (More accurately, Emilia ate the raspberries while her mama did these things.) But she was more than excited to help sandwich the layers, drizzle the frosting, and stud the top with raspberries. So excited, in fact, that I literally had to remove her little little mouth from the cake — not once, but twice (once before the frosting and once after). I kept telling her that it is considered shocking behaviour to bite into a whole cake before one has even finished making it, but she didn't care. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear she was being raised in a barn.

I brought the cake to the table after a lovely soup dinner, and Emilia looked delighted. She was rather pleased with her little self for 'help[ing] mama make Valentine cake!' And after all that, she still sat and just ate the raspberries.

The cake itself is wonderful (as are all of Nigella's cakes). It's not too sweet so you can really taste the raspberries. And strangely enough, Michael (who won't go near a cupcake to save his life) had two pieces.  Aaaah, a man after my own heart!

One Perfect Rose

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet —

One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;

"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."

Love long has taken for his amulet

One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet

One perfect limousine, do you suppose?

Ah no, it's always just my luck to get

One perfect rose.

— Dorothy Parker, 1926

Call Your Mom!

You know those times when you see something and know you will not be able to sleep until you have it? (Me either, but I have a friend with this problem.) Anyway, ages ago I was thumbing through Vanity Fair magazine and I saw this ad for a handbag. It was a picture of this beautiful handbag on a small table in a coffee shop with a pair of glasses next to it. I think there may have been a cup of coffee and a newspaper involved, but I really can't remember. Naturally, I fell it love with it. And, as I have a (rather annoying) tendency to do, I began obsessing over it.

I suppose you should know that I am a highly intelligent person, and I have taken enough literary criticism classes in my life to know a few things about advertising. This is one of the things I know: I loved that bag so much because it embodied a whole image — an image that I happen to love. Looking at this ad made me want to sit in a coffee shop somewhere on the Upper West Side wearing my tortoiseshell glasses (I don't wear or need glasses, by the way), a streamlined and luxurious black turtleneck, ballet flats, a just-so shade of red lipstick, and my hair tied back in a knot at the nape of my neck. And I would sit, with my doppio espresso, reading the Wall Street Journal or something, totally undisturbed by the trivial, and rather shallow, nonsense surrounding me. 'Ah, 'tis just another day. Remind me to call my broker later, dahling. Where shall we winter next year?' You know what I am getting at. And yes, I know it is a sham. Well, for me, anyway. But that is the beauty of advertising. Each of our belongings is an idea or a projection of something else, in a way. That aside, I tracked down this bag. I couldn't help myself.

I suppose another thing you should know is that Kate Spade's handbags don't actually grow on trees. They are expensive — and rather expensive at that. Certainly not in the manner of Hermès or anything, mind you, but still expensive. But really, what was I to do? I was quite literally losing sleep over it. My options were thus: Buy said gorgeous handbag and all my problems will be solved; or, don't buy it and become some wildly unattractive hag — all on account of the fact that I am losing a great deal of beauty sleep each night. Naturally, I bought the bag.

Shortly thereafter the guilt set in. No, it wasn't a million dollars, but it was enough to make me sick if I thought about it too long. So I tucked it in the back of the closet, waiting for the guilt to subside. It didn't. So, one sad day I drove myself to Nordstrom with the idea of returning my gorgeous handbag. I walked in and slapped it on the counter and began demanding a full refund. Mid-sentence, I said, 'What am I doing? Lady, give me back my bag!' And I quickly left.

A few more months went by and I pulled my lovely handbag back out of the closet. I took one long look at it and thought, 'Why this isn't a handbag at all! It's a piece of luggage! Talk about huge. What on earth am I going to do with this thing?' (Although, I daresay it would be perfect for a diaper and wipes and such. Nevermind a newspaper and smart glasses.) I have been more than happy with my gorgeous little Longchamps, after all. (Which is true; it's the best handbag I've ever owned, and suits me perfectly.)

I drove myself back to Nordstrom, slapped the bag back on the counter again, and said, 'Please! Just take it away!' As the girl was beginning to issue my refund, I carelessly glanced at the tag. Written in a tiny little font were the words: Call Your Mom. Call Your Mom — that is the name of the bag. I can't even begin to tell you how appropriate that is. It nearly made my heart beat out of my chest. I had just been talking to my mom on the phone in the car. It's a sign! And then I looked up and saw that the bag had since gone on sale — by quite a lot. Oh my goodness.

And so, being the classy dame that I am, I returned the bag. And then I bought it again — on sale. I realize this is wildly tacky, but I am feeling rather pleased with myself. And I plan to call my mother in the morning and tell her all about the new diaper bag I 'just bought'.