This was not my plan!

We can all relate, halfway through cooking something and you find out that you are three eggs short or that the milk has gone bad, or that someone already enjoyed half the ingredients you were planning to use. What happens next could be the topic of a great sociological study. Some people will come to a screeching halt, have a half minute internal freak-out session, smile and add in the extra step of running to the grocery store to hunt down the missing ingredients. Then they will fall back into place upon their return with no one being the wiser. Their finished product will be more perfect than a North Korean drum line skip marching in unison. This is how my best friend handles these situations, with the true grace of a displaced southern lady. Others of us are deterred by our Ally McBeal-esque daydreams about the misadventures and logistics of such the epicurean odyssey that an unplanned trip to the grocery store would become, and are forced to "roll with it."

I was making what I had hoped would be pizza last night with my own children and realized that we had no pizza sauce, and no tomatoes to boot. My mind quickly went into the aforementioned Ally McBeal mode and (probably because the holidays were so close) I was picturing something akin to a 12 days of Christmas parody with stock boys a-leaping, car parkers a-fighting, and children a-begging for everything that Santa has already packed away for them! Seeing as I was completely unprepared for a debate regarding the pros and cons of the pre-Christmas ownership of a candy cane filled with M&Ms with my 8 year old, I decided that I definitely belonged in the "roll with it" group. I flipped through the virtual recipe book in my head for anything remotely close to sauceless pizza that my children would eat without making minion faces at each other across the table. I was at a loss. I had to change my plan, but "I'm just no good at that" I thought to myself.

I am the adult end-result of that kid who really didn't transition well between activities. Plans were set in stone in my mind and it was devastating if even one iota of my preconceived notions were adjusted. My poor parents struggled to teach me to "go with the flow", "bend with the river" and "change with the tide", but they only succeeded in most cases in making me wonder aloud why all of these metaphors involved water, which usually also caused an impromptu bathroom break for myself and at least one of my siblings.

As I ended my trip down memory lane, I could feel this wave of anger come over me. I was so upset!  All of a sudden I felt a kinship with Dr. Bruce Banner. Was that a backstory that Stan Lee and Jack Kirby had left out?  He probably forgot the tomatoes too! My mind ran through the comedic - yet very plausible- possibility of the rants of the most unpredictable Avenger being the direct result of a household produce shortage. No wonder he smashes everything! He's only trying to "go with the flow!"  "How could this happen?" I whined to myself,  "Who could I blame?" my mind scrambled to make senseless links between our households "offenders" this week and our current lack of lycopene. "My husband was looking for a snack last night, perhaps he ate all the...tomatoes?...probably not. Wait! Wasn't my daughter out of paint colors last week? Maybe she crushed up some..." No that's a  little far fetched even for me -- I could feel my breath increase, I could feel my lungs taking in the necessary air to unleash a primal scream in the very vain attempt to release this incredible pressure I had put on myself. "Pressure to make the perfect... pizza?" I thought. At this point all three kids were looking at me cockeyed, and I am certain their next step would have been to speed-dial my husband to inquire what exactly turns a person green and causes their clothing to rip into purple shreds had I not managed to utter an intelligible phrase: "This was NOT my plan!"  Realizing they had not been witness to the last five minutes inside my head, I took that parent time out. YOU know the one, where you look at them using that juvenile "what?" look that everyone perfects in middle school. (As an aside - I am completely convinced that honing of this skill is the sole reason we are subjected to adolescence.) Then you give a smirk and simultaneously catalog your options at lightning speed. What a ridiculous notion?! I looked at the situation around me, three hungry kids, all scavenging the cupboards and fridge pulling out vegetables some kids wouldn't even touch trying to help...me. They didn't care about the pizza, they cared about me.

At this point I had pretty much forgotten about the pizza and I was focused on my kids, because I realized, they hadn't been a part of my plan either. When I graduated college, I had every intention of traveling the world, studying languages and people, no husband and kids were in that plan. I realized that I have no idea when or how that plan had changed, but I am ever so grateful that it did! Furthermore, if that big of a change could turn out this well, then surely not having tomatoes could be made into something even better too.

Long story slightly shorter, we used our dough as a Stromboli base, cut up spinach and sauteed eggplant strips. Added spinach and garlic to ricotta cheese closed the Stromboli and laid eggplant strips on top. Hulk Stromboli...it puffs up, but keeps it's form and serves a useful and delicious purpose. No tomatoes needed--Oh! and no minion faces.

This holiday, I wish you all well deserved rest, peace and some delicious memories made with those you love. At least that is our plan here...

~Barb




"Hulk" Stromboli  Preheat to 375

Use any pizza dough recipe. Make dough, and set aside.
1 large eggplant cut into strips and flash sauteed with 1/2 the garlic below.
1 pack of frozen chopped spinach or 2 cups of fresh chopped spinach.
1 head of minced garlic separated 1/2, 1/2
1 small container of ricotta cheese
1 cup shredded mozzarella


 Spread out the dough in a rectangular shape
Combine the 1/2 garlic, spinach and ricotta
Spread mixture onto the dough
Coat with mozzarella
Close it up.
Lay the eggplant strips on top
bake at 375 for about 20-25 mins or until top is golden brown.

If you want to get really decorative, you can cut slits in the Stromboli and push eggplant strips part way in so the whole thing looks "tattered" after baking 

Concentrate on what you've got...

"If I had more paint colors I could paint ..." then her voice melted into a din like the sound of Charlie Brown's teacher. I had worked late that day. The over achieving SLP had won out over the over-achieving mom that day and obviously the overpowering weapon was a common sense drain. I had convinced myself that, despite my recent procrastination award for  grocery shopping avoidance- which I could display quite nicely in my barren pantry-I would be quite capable of "whipping something up" (isn't that what they used to say?). However, by the time I dragged myself over the threshold of our new home that day, the thought of venturing the entire half mile to the grocery store was just too much to bear. I was still operating under the delusion that I could create an acceptable meal by scavenging for ingredients, thereby rescuing myself from having to negotiate with the flip flops that were currently holding me hostage.  I had all but caved to the realization that I would not be creating a piece de la resistance for family dinner that night from the half eaten bag of walnuts, meager left over taco fixings, head of romaine, two pieces of turkey, cranberries, and dry goods that remained in the house, and was planning a new dinner based on buying the ingredients whose plot line would provide me the fastest course through the local grocery store, when I snapped back to reality. My daughter's din had turned into more of a continuous whine, which I recognized instantly as the second stage of suburban child starvation. Like every loving and concerned parent whose child is suffering in front of them from a self-inflicted malady would do, I grasped for the closest cliche I could  and struck: "Why can't you just be happy with what you have?"

Instantly, like that record-scratch party scene from every eighties movie you have ever seen, life face-palmed me for being such a hypocrite! Time stood still and I studied my daughter's slack-jawed mid-eye roll face, and felt the full pressure of the universe because I somehow in that moment had become the embodiment of my mother's past words and most likely my daughter's future words. For one brief second time had folded and as luck would have it, clobbered me. As her eyes whipped around the final bend, everything returned to normal and I was left with no alibi, no explanation for being so dismissive, just an indignant stance and a look that I'm sure wreaked of insecurity. I mustered up the courage to apologize and listen. As it turned out, I was right, she was being a little glutinous and as I handed down her "sentence," I thought back to my own situation and decided to sentence us both. "I think we both need to learn to work with what we have a little better." As I was almost sideswiped by another hazardous eye roll, I pulled her to the kitchen and asked her to use some of that creativity to help me create a kid friendly dinner with what we had. In the end, we decided to make taco quesadillas with the left over fixings and serve them with a side of quinoa and romaine with cranberries and walnuts. It was not gourmet, but it was relatively balanced, they all found something they liked and I did not have to surrender my flip flops.

Post some of your favorite ways to use left overs below: 

Silent victories

            My family has begun a fantastic tradition of after-school meetings. When the kids get home, we all meet at the kitchen island to have a snack, and discuss the day’s events before heading off to do homework or chores. As the kids have gotten older, the need to prepare them to cope with social stress has become more of a pressing issue. It always amazes me how early this pettiness invades a childhood these days-maybe I am just getting old. I gently revise conversations that seem “gossipy” with directed questions to bring them back to a less “catty” but related topic. I also try very hard to surround myself with people who do the same for their children. I avoid drama where I can and try to let it go when it cannot be avoided. There is much to be said for not taking the bait! I try very hard to model genuine caring, compassion and a gentle nature for my kids. I don’t always succeed, but it seems very important that my kids learn to let go of small stresses like being angry at someone for cutting you off in the car. I remind myself out loud, to let it go, they must be in a very big hurry, and that I really hope they are okay.

            A while back, during one of these kitchen meetings while having tea and cake, my son asked me if he could skip trick-or-treating this year. I furled my brows and cocked my head in a questioning pose as I probed the situation further. He responded in a way he rarely does...he retreated and walked away sullenly. I followed him as my mind rivaled a circus acrobat performing a complex series of flip-flops trying to account for this new behavior. Two hours later, I had dragged out of him that he had ripped his costume and his friends were going to make fun of him if he went in a ripped costume. I pulled it from his shelf and saw that it was in disrepair, truly a loss. “No problem” I gloated “We have a Halloween tote full of old costumes, we can just choose another.” Once again, I was met with sullen silence paired this time with two sky blue daggers piercing my mind that for some reason, was just not understanding. “Forget it” he announced, “I am probably too old to go anyway.” Before he retired his little nine-year old body to a life void of brightly wrapped chocolate treats, I coaxed him back to the kitchen. For me, the kitchen is like a neutral ground full of inviting smells and endless possibilities. Plus, even if you fail there, chances are, the mistake will be delicious. As we munched on Great Grandma’s pineapple upside down cake, it occurred to me that I was looking at the wrong side of the problem! The costume wasn’t the real issue.

            My children know that if I start to tell them a story, that it has a meaning that they will be quizzed on after the story. (Needless to say, my stories are often met with belabored sighs and winces displaying that knowledge.) And so it was, that I opened my mouth and before I could utter a word, he collapsed into self-defeat. So I stopped and thought. No, I scrambled for a different approach. This time, I did not tell a story. Instead, I asked questions. Lots of questions! Through his answers, he displayed his understanding of the difference between playful banter and belittling, and came to the conclusion that his friends may not be true friends if they would hurt his feelings purposely. It was the first time I think he discovered the answer to his own problem. (Albeit with a little guided moderation.) So he and I both learned something that day, and as we shared the last piece of pineapple upside down cake, it was more satisfying. I felt slightly superhero-ish, but like most superheroes, my glory was a private celebration. One which came after seeing the look of new-found direction and confidence that my son will always believe he created alone.

I have already shared the recipe below, but I am posting it again, because it is just that good!

Great Grandma Z’s “Flip your perspective” pineapple upside down cake.

3 eggs

1 cup sugar

1 cup flour

1 can crushed pineapple, drained

Beat eggs with hand blender until yellow froth appears. Add sugar slowly to form soft peaks. Sift flour and fold into batter until completely blended in. Spray the sides of a 9x9 baking pan with baking spray or grease and flour. Spread crushed pineapple across bottom of pan and pour batter directly on top. Bake for about 45 mins at 375. Top should look firm and slightly browned. Remove and cool, flip onto serving plate, you can use a cold wet towel on the bottom of the pan to coax the pineapple to loosen. Lift the pan, cut and serve. This cake should be eaten within a day or two of cooking or it will get mushy. J Enjoy!

Definitely sweat the small stuff

            We have all received the emails regaling stories of people who have had lived through life-changing events and the moral is always something akin to “don’t sweat the small stuff.” It’s everywhere. Waving good morning to you from your Facebook inbox, wagging a finger at you in a well meant e-card, jogging past you on a T-shirt  or coaxing you into a pensive minute and a half meditation at a traffic light  from the bumper sticker of the car in front of you. At this point, it has become an adage or some may even say it is a cliché in American society. Most people will agree that it is sage advice. I think this saying needs a small adjustment. I think we should all sweat the small stuff, just make sure it’s the right small stuff.

            The small stuff is what sets a great chef’s recipes apart from cafeteria food, slivers of a second separate gold medal recipients from silver, and the tiniest pitch adjustment can make or break a music performance. To ignore it completely would be to cease striving for anything. Instead, let’s sift the small stuff. I think that life has gotten a little too complex and we could all benefit from a slight adjustment in thinking. A lot of us have been moving so quickly for so long that we don’t recognize the small stuff a lot of the time, let alone realize the value of it.

            Take this morning for instance. I woke up and spent forever preparing everyone for school and work. I found a love note written on my mirror in lipliner from my husband. Just a simple “I love you” and I did nothing. I had the day on my mind. I needed to make sure my daughter’s backpack was empty so the teacher wouldn’t think I didn’t care, I had to make sure the boys combed their hair properly so the other kids wouldn’t think they were sloppy, I had to bring the garbage cans back in so the neighbors wouldn’t think we were lazy. I was definitely sweating the small stuff! Downstairs, I found a note on my kitchen counter. It was from my daughter who is learning to write in kindergarten. It read: “just becas I lOve You love Marionna.” It was written on a torn piece of paper with hearts made from holes poked through the paper with a pen and a star drawn in the center.  I smiled and set it aside as I continued to prep lunches and clear the dishes from breakfast. I spent my day fussing over minute details that I thought meant something and which probably were pointless, while completely ignoring the important people in my life. I was clearly sweating the wrong small stuff. Later in the day during lunch as I was sorting junk mail, I realized that if I could take 3 minutes a day to sort junk, I should take the same time to prioritize my life! I pondered the events of the day and realized how important those messages were to their authors and how disrespectful I had been by not acknowledging and reciprocating right away. I don’t believe in dwelling on past mistakes, but I believe less in repeating them.

            Tonight, we will be having an old-fashioned home made sit down family dinner, because that is the small stuff I choose to attend to. Dishes will pile up and they may even be left until tomorrow (GASP!) but my husband and my kids will go to sleep tonight knowing how important they are to me. Tomorrow morning, there will be another message on the mirror, this time FROM me and my daughter’s lunch will have a special note as well. So, I challenge you each to spend the next week sifting the small stuff and portion your time and efforts accordingly.

            Please feel free to share your favorite home-cooked sit down dinner in the comments section below.

Home made Pot Roast:

Large piece of Beef or Pork loin.

Half a bag of small cooking onions

Similar amount of small cooking potatoes (or new potatoes)

Six large carrots

Salt and pepper to taste

Boil the meat in lightly salted water until cooked through (use meat thermometer) in a large pot with lid.

Add carrots and potatoes boil until fork soft,

Add onions and boil until glassy.

Total cook time is usually about 4-6 hours – you can let it cook longer on low to increase flavor.

Sift all contents into serving bowl. Reserve Au jus to make mashed potatoes, or to use as gravy or cook dumplings in it.

When life gives you peaches...

         One of my favorite stories to tell actually predates my current kitchen. That is right, we are going pre-Aunt Barb’s Kitchen, actually, pre-Aunt Barb! I guess back then I was just Barb. My husband and I lived in a beautiful two-story, two bedroom, two- minutes-to-get-the oven-open (but that is another story) townhome. It was inconvenient, but it was home. And, since we were expecting our third baby, it was shrinking! So, we were in the process of building our new home, and on this particularly extremely hot end-of-summer day, I was cursing the slow progression of the building process as I melted in my non-air conditioned home. Given the exasperating circumstance I was in, I did what any heat-stricken melting pregnant woman would do. I packed the kids in the car for a field trip to buy peaches to make a cobbler.

           I frequented a farm stand just outside our town. The kids loved the elderly couple that ran the farm stand, and the elderly couple was always mesmerized by my pregnancy jeans. The lady always marveled over how much more comfortable pregnancy outfits were nowadays. They say that when you are pregnant your brain gets a little cloudy, even during simple transactions like making change or remembering where you left your keys. I am not convinced that everyone goes through this, as I have seen some of my best friends perform awe-inspiring tasks while pregnant. As for me though, I definitely was in a cloudy pregnancy brain-storm that day because I bought two giant bags of peaches from the kindly woman with so many compliments about my stretchy-top jeans. I am still not sure WHY I thought I needed so many, and I have spent many a reflective moment pondering how my life might have turned out had I not bought so many peaches that fine day, or had perhaps chosen a more sensible selection, like corn.

           On the ride home, the boys who were, 1 and 2 at the time, indulged in a Ramona Quimby style feast of peaches, taking a bite and then dropping the rest to move on to the next peach, that, lacking all foresight, I had left within their reach (and just out of mine). As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that I could not let my peach covered boys run around the apartment while I unloaded the car. So, I brought the produce in, quickly dropped the bags at the door and headed back out to bring the boys in one at a time.

            As any parent of a toddler knows, transitioning from the car to home takes forty-two years. It is a long process that begins with a brief hide and seek for the harness release button, followed by an endless scavenger hunt for all the child’s paraphernalia, topped off with the toddler having fallen asleep, requiring you to balance/juggle it all with any combination of hands, knees, hip, thigh, shoulder and mouth, while you quickly grow a third hand to open and close the doors.  “Ha! Bring it parenthood!” I thought to myself once I had completed that parental triathlon with the first boy.

           Apparently, parenthood was listening, and responded in kind by upping the difficulty level. My older son helped himself to four decades worth of peaches while I unloaded my younger son. When I realized the situation had gone from bad to worse, I contemplated my dilemma: the car had soon-to-be-rotting peaches in it, but the boys were also covered. What to do? I resorted to the idea that the car would have to wait and I bathed the boys and set the older one downstairs, while I quickly dressed the baby. However, I had once again forgotten to move the peaches. So, while I lotioned my freshly bathed 1 year old, my 2 year old was helping himself to even more peaches, except unbeknownst to me at that time, the unused portions were being tossed onto the cream colored carpet of our rented apartment. I set the baby down in his crib and had a little triumphant skip in my step as I descended the stairs. I was so proud that despite the stresses of the day, I was still in relatively good spirits. Evidently, the fates saw this as a silent gauntlet to the face and my good mood faded to a feeling of inner face-palm as I immediately realized my mistake. Again with the peaches! Counting to ten I scooped up my two year old, and re-bathed him, lotioned, dressed him and set him in his room for a nap.   

          As I cleaned the tub, a familiar smell wafted my way. It seemed that the baby needed a change. So I proceeded to my room, but as it turned out, heat and babies and peaches should be registered as a biological weapon.  The whole crib needed a change! Half an hour later, as the baby lie in clean linens in his crib, I scrubbed the tub, perplexed as to why I could not eradicate the smell. I heard the most delightful giggling coming from my older son’s room. As I peeked in, I gazed upon another stinky peachy mess and one naked toddler running around in it!

            I am still not sure how we all made it through that day. I am not sure how the car and the carpet and the tub ever returned to their original spiffy state of clean. I do know that by the time my husband arrived home, the kids were finally sleeping. I can only imagine what he must have felt as he walked into the kitchen to find me preparing dinner and crying. Did he notice that they were not the kind of tears you weep when you watch a heartfelt movie, and not the kind you cry when you lose your dearest Grandma unexpectedly?  I still wonder if he recognized my tears as the kind of tears you cry when you are turning your body’s last reserves into energy to push through a day of ridiculousness like no other. A day that will go down in forgotten history with all the other amazing feats that only live in the minds of parents everywhere, occasionally retold in kitchens like my own, but more often lost to brain clouds, shame or a healthy combination of both. A day when peaches have become your enemy and there is only one thing left to do:

Make the best darned peach cobbler ever!:

6-8 Peaches washed and sliced but not peeled

¼ cup Brown sugar

1 brick of cream cheese

1 tsp Vanilla

½ cup granulated white sugar

Baking mix – prepare drop biscuit recipe according to your box in a bowl and set aside

Whipped cream

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix the sliced peaches and the brown sugar until all peaches are coated.

Cover the bottom of a tart pan (or a shallow Correlle baker) with sliced peach mixture.

Using a hand mixer, add vanilla and sugar to the cream cheese in a mixing bowl and beat until only small bumps are left.

Spoon cream cheese mixture over the peaches, place tart or baking pan onto a cookie sheet and bake for about 20-25 mins, or until the cream cheese parts look like a cheesecake (not soupy).

Remove and let cool.

Drop spoons of biscuit mixture on top of cream cheese peach tart and bake (with pan on cookie sheet) again for about 10-15 mins or until the top is slightly browned.

Serve warm or cool with whipped cream. (Don’t forget to refrigerate the leftovers)

Ever make a great recipe out of complete exasperation, frustration or just by accident? I want to hear about it! Please post your story in the comment box below.

A Matter of Perspective

            My kitchen has the best view, from the window above my sink, I can see my backyard and the edge of the forest beyond it. I am lucky enough to be able to watch my kids romp the way kids do when there is no one reigning them in, when they have the luxury of free time and lots of space to run wild with their imaginations. From my little window, I have watched friendships formed, duels fought, truces shaken upon and then broken ten minutes later. I have seen first love and first heartache, and I have witnessed firsthand the results of my parenting efforts. I have seen my kids at their best, reaching out to a lonely friend or helping a struggling sibling without being asked, and I have seen them at their worst, testing boundaries I didn’t think I would be dealing with for years to come. My kitchen window has given me the gift of knowing my kids from another point of view. One from which I have less direct influence. It is scary sometimes to watch as they do something I have warned them not to do a million times, but it is exciting to see them accomplish something I would not have allowed them to even attempt. While trying to catch my breath after watching my son sled down a homemade jump ramp on our back hill, narrowly missing the stockade fence, it occurred to me that my kids have to live within the confines of this concept of  “liability” that I am so scared of. I am so scared to let them try things that could hurt them that I deprive them of that feeling you get when you accomplish something you thought was impossible! Having had the epiphany that I was a terrible parent, I fought the urge to yell for the kids to come inside, and sat back to watch in awe of the wonderful fun they were having. I had just about convinced myself that, given my utter failed attempt at parenting, I should back off completely, let them have free reign, and pursue my original life goal of being an astronaut princess rockstar. That is, until I heard the scream. Parents, you know the one I mean. It was different than the playful screeches kids belt out during tag; it was not the lingering “I’m sick” sob, this was the high pitched crack and then heart-wrenching silence followed by the “someone-find-my-mom-because-I-really-hurt-myself” cry.  Evidently, their sled had made contact with the fence on one run down the hill. I sized up the damage: two kids  walking (no broken legs), no blood, one cradled arm...a broken arm perhaps? Like any parent worth their salt, I snapped back to reality and pretended to be unimpressed with the whole situation while I inspected the injury. Little did they know I was an emotional wreck inside. Had I actually failed at not parenting? Is that even possible? I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I was pretty sure it was my fault. After some arm maneuvering and a little reverse psychology, the boys were found to be scraped but essentially fine.  So, I whipped up some comfort food, gave them each a hug, then I sat down to give them the “I told you so” talk, but I changed my mind. My kitchen window had shown me the benefits of a longer leash and allowing kids to learn from their own mistakes. And my window had given me a great perspective with which to "frame" the current situation. So I just said: “ if you move your ramp down the hill a bit, you won’t have to worry about the fence again,” and I turned and walked away, knowing that they may choose not to listen, but trusting that  given some space, they would make the right decision. So, I have indefinitely postponed my royal space album's debut due to the realization that I may not be such a bad Mom after all.

Get-a-Different -Perspective Upside-Down Pineapple Cake  **Courtesy of Grandma Zhanna**

Ingredients:

3 egg yolks
1 cup flour

1 cup sugar

1 Can  (strained) of pineapple rings or tidbits

Preheat oven to 375 degrees

Spray or butter and flour the sides only of a 9”x9” baking pan

Beat egg yolks until they change color
Add sugar and beat again
Fold in flour

Arrange pineapple pieces in bottom of pan

Pour batter over the pineapple

Bake about 50 mins.

Let cool 10 mins then flip upside down onto plate to serve.

Simple Elegance

     Like most women, my hair and I are in a constant love hate relationship. It loves to torment me, and I hate it. I was born with my Mother’s fine strands, but my Grandmother’s enormous volume of them. It is neither curly, nor straight. So, it requires either straightening or curling daily, before I feel presentable. On one particular Halloween, we were getting ready for the much anticipated parade of friends and family through our humble home, and of course, I was preparing snacks in my kitchen. I had been struggling the better part of the evening with costumes and accessories to prepare my children to go charm treats from our neighbors.  I had curled my hair in the morning, but there had been no time to style it with any intention, because I still had to prepare the snacks for our guests. As I stood over the stove mulling cider, I was constantly bombarded by a mystical menagerie of ghouls and fairytale creatures with the strangest requests. I got a chuckle from the thought of a pirate asking for help buttoning his shirt and a dragon needing a scarf to keep his face warm. As I bent down to comply with each bizarre request, my hair fell into my face. I brushed it aside, annoyed that it had dared to interrupt such important work! Besides, I was worried that my magical night might end in tragedy if my hair caught fire as I cooked. As I reached for the strainer in the back of one of my cabinets, my locks again dutifully reminded me of their needs too. Exasperated, I searched for the clip that I kept in my kitchen. It was bejeweled with red crystals in a flower pattern and made me feel slightly more put-together whenever I swept my hair back with it. What I had forgotten, was that my little princess was wearing it that night. And I literally mean princess, but since the costume's tiara was too rough on her scalp, we had used my beloved clip as an acceptable substitution. She was a vision, and I was out of luck! As one of my bangs curled its way into my line of sight for the third time, I desperately scanned the kitchen for a twist tie, rubber band or anything that could just keep it at bay until I could finish cooking. I spotted a lone green chopstick peeking from the pile of drying dishes. I remember when I  washed it, that its mate was missing, but I was reluctant to toss it, because it was a beautiful color green. I quickly swirled it through my ponytail and triumphantly ran it through the resulting twist. That would do the trick! I strained the cider and plated the caramel apples just in time for my husband to announce that it was time to trick or treat! I shouted from the kitchen for them to give me five minutes to do my hair. (I was going as a butterfly and needed to look pretty.) He looked at me puzzled and shrugged as he walked away. But as I ran around the banister to climb the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my chopstick-do in the port hole mirror at the bottom of the stairs. And to his surprise, I put some deedley-boppers on my head and walked past him through the front door. As it turned out, my hairstyle looked more elegant than any I would have been able to coax it into in the next five minutes. I congratulated myself, as we raced to catch up to our brood, on my fairytale ending of simple elegance. I marveled at its simplicity and at the fact that my kitchen had come to my rescue providing me with the perfect accessory. I silently congratulated myself for having achieved a feat regaled in numerous beauty magazines as the ultimate style quest--simple elegance. As the kids ran up the drive of the very first house of the night, I soaked in the joy of and magic of the night. But as I watched all the candy-crazed mystical creatures running about, I realized that it was a unique moment. Like most of the best memories a person has, there was no record of it, no reference point to refer back to and no chance of recreating it. It was simply an elegant memory in my mind. As for recreating it, impossible! After all it would require: one cooking hazard, a little pressure from a pirate and a dragon, one princess with a very sensitive scalp, and a lonely but lovely green chopstick.

Recipe: Simply Elegant Chicken

1- 1/2 pounds of boneless chicken thighs

1 medium onion coarsely chopped

1 green pepper coarsely chopped

1 can of (Contadina brand) diced tomatoes in Burgundy wine

Add olive oil to a frying pan set to medium high and sauté onion and pepper until glassy. Increase heat and sear chicken on all sides. Reduce heat to medium and add can of diced tomatoes. Cover and let simmer for about 25 mins (or until chicken reaches 180 degrees internally). If sauce gets too thick, add a little water and/or reduce heat a bit.

Serve over mashed potatoes.

Question of the week: What food is the epitome of simple elegance for you?