I Was A Fake Cancer Kid, Part 2: Picture a Perfect Place


, , , , ,

More on this fellow in a moment.

More on this fellow in a moment.

(Note: A Wednesday post! And only two weeks late. I’d like to thank the Word document that disappeared, the new apartment that materialized out of nowhere, and that cancelled flight on weekend of the 4th.

EDIT: Here’s Part 1.)

At the out-of-state 4th of July party I finally made it to, I talked with a much younger friend who I don’t see often. She’s had her own share of serious health issues, more serious than mine, but with no resemblance to cancer.

When night had fallen and the bonfire was in full force, we were hanging out by the s’more fixings and she asked me what I thought a perfect world would be like.

It threw me.

I took some time to answer. After I finally decided not to broach the subject of a hypothetical global system designed to mitigate all human suffering (with this ten-year-old, you never know), I tried to think what a perfect world—as in, this world—would look like, minus suffering and boredom.

Hard to imagine. Though I did know exactly what my perfect place would not be.

It would not be a place where there is no doom or gloom, with birds singing [something] songs, and all the flowers bloom, [something something something rhymes with een], and absolutely green.

At least not in those words.


Back when I was a fake cancer kid, I went to regular appointments (weekly, semi-weekly, then not regularly, sporadically, until the start of high school) in the same clinic as a bunch of real cancer kids.
The oldest kid I knew of was seventeen and had one leg. There were a few babies around from time to time, too, and many more in between. Many, many more, it seemed. One time a smiling girl my age, with a cute bandana tied around her head, was called in ahead of me. I was mad. I’d been waiting for two hours. I didn’t care that I had hair and she didn’t.

Did I ever claim this experience made me an angel? No, I did not.

My own appointments, check-ups and chemo combined, were probably only about thirty minutes at most. (It wasn’t until the second season of Orange is the New Black that I realized how long serious chemo can take.)

They were fine in themselves, except for the time a nurse misaimed the needle in my port and had to jiggle it around—while it was still stuck in—for a few minutes until it landed.

That’s what I think of today when I hear the word “discomfort.”

But as established, I was fortunate in many ways. Often for me, the worst part of chemo was the wait. Which could be long.

The waiting room was set up for this. It was well-stocked with toys (toys that made noise), included a separate room with computers that was sometimes unlocked (so I could escape the noise for homework or Zoombinis), and also had a VCR monitor with a cabinet full of videos (the point of this paragraph).

The video selection was decent. I remember choosing, at one time or another, Annie, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and Sarah, Plain and Tall. The last made a boy—not a sick one, mind you, someone’s older brother—agitate for Sandlot instead.

I ignored him out of stubbornness and still feel guilty when I watch Sandlot today. I never did see it at the clinic and was surprised years later when I liked it.
Still not an angel.

For all the videos available , though, only a few seemed to get regular air time. Someone with the same appointment slot as mine seemed pretty fond of Indian in the Cupboard, for instance. Fine by me.

What was less fine was whichever kid* it was who was obsessed with freaking fricking fracking fecking effing #*$@ing gorram Troll in Central Park.

Pardon? What was that? You’ve never heard of A Troll in Central Park? Well, now you have.

Oh, you want to know more about just how massively Don Bluth misfired in 1994? Go visit the Nostalgia Critic. He’s better at this than me.

He also puts into (very, very bad) words exactly how I felt back then, at ten years old, coming off months of pain and surgery and metabolism killing drugs, surrounded by kids who’d been through all that but worse and were missing hair or legs to boot, stuck for hours in this waiting room while precious seconds of fourth grade life ticked away, captive to this stupid cartoon featuring the above-pictured stupid little round dude with the stupid face and annoying voice provided by a surprisingly big name actor who seems to be constantly singing this stupid song that it turns out goes

Picture a perfect place
Where there is no doom or gloom
Birds singing happy songs
And all the flowers bloom
It’s something like nowhere you’ve ever seen
And absolutely greeeeen

My gut-punch reaction to this song—and this song was on a trailer on another oft-played video, so it was on all the freaking fracking gorram time—was then as now along the lines of,

What the hell kind of a lameass place is that?

Not my perfect world, which involved not doom and gloom exactly, not say, cancer for these other kids.
But challenge. Success. Contrast. Some desert, for goodness’ sake.

Then, what did I know, really? I was considering the perfect place in the abstract.

Back on the day that I was diagnosed for real, after my doctor explained what was wrong, I asked her flat-out, “Will I die?”

I didn’t ask because I was brave. I didn’t plan on going all Eva St. Claire if the answer wasn’t “No.” I did believe death wasn’t the end, but put to the test, I may not have tranquilly accepted that I was just headed to hang out with Roald Dahl for a few years while I waited for some relatives to show up.

I asked because I believed that other kids could become terminally ill, and that that was very sad, but it simply was not possible for me. I asked the question so the doctor could confirm this.

I’d thought of dying briefly, but not in depth. Not then.

Angel, not me, etc.

So for months ahead, in the waiting room, the movie and the song and the little boy* who was always watching it annoyed me. I wasn’t going to die, I was staying for the foreseeable future in this world where there was doom and gloom and it was often what made life exciting and good things better, so what the hell, kid?

Much later it occurred to me that said kid was going through substantially more doom and gloom than I was, that this life wasn’t what he wanted to focus on, that maybe he needed the constant reiteration of that absolutely green place to comfort and sustain him.

Or maybe he just got a big kick out of those incessantly dancing flowers.

Whichever, kid. Hope all is well for you now.


I tried to describe my perfect world, one involving success and challenges and work and some desert. I didn’t do it very well and have accepted that I can’t.

After we discussed it for a while, my friend, who like me likes to read and write stories, commented,

“If the world were perfect, all the authors would be out of a job.”

This opens a whole other can of worms, essay-wise. But to stay on track, it summed up a key reason I was frustrated by that stupid troll and his stupid song.

“I don’t know,” I said, and tried to expand, but not very convincingly. She wasn’t altogether speculating. Oh, well. She’s reading the Narnia books now and will read about Aslan’s country before too long. “Adventures” are fodder for authors, surely, though sickness, sorrow, or sighing need not apply.

Finally we paused for a while.

“Heaven is going to be wonderful,” she said.

“Yes, it will,” I answered. Though frick me if I have any clue how.

Hope all is well for you, kids.

Hope it’s full of dancing flowers if you’re into that kind of thing.

The Wednesday Woman

*I have a vague sense of who this boy was. If I didn’t, I’d still be sure he was a boy, given that the movie’s only positive female character of note is a stupid cutesy toddler who exists to cry and/or make stupid cutesy noises. Don’t think this escaped then or would have ever.

Not that the male characters come off much better.

I am also sure the boy was very young.

Watch This Space (Please)


, , ,

Watch it…

Watch it…

Watch it…

Keep watching. The next real post will be up on or before this coming Wednesday.

Hey, if you’d been stuck in airport overnight shortly after your potato salad recipe went live, then had the third draft of your next post eaten by your computer (I’m working off the handwritten first draft now), then had to move (again) the next week, chances are you’d fall behind schedule too.

For what it’s worth, my apologies. Soon there will be brownies, but not before “I Was a Fake Cancer Kid, Part 2.”

Monday Monday, it’s here to stay,

The Wednesday Woman

By the way, potato salad Kickstarter potato salad Kickstarter potato salad Kickstarter hey come check out the potato salad recipe below. I wonder if anyone submitted a Syrian/Lebanese potato salad to PotatoSaladStock or whatever it’s come to be known as.

(UPDATE: It’s Potato Stock, in fact. If I was a reader I’d be really irritated with me for not looking it up to begin with. Sorry.)

Recipe: Fat-Free Potato Salad for the 4th of July


, , , , , ,

Mmm. A sincere "Mmm." (Repeated.)

Mmm. A sincere “Mmm.” (Repeated.)

Okay, it’s not quite fat free. But it’s mayonnaise-free.

(By the way, my friend at Precisely What Exists just loooooooooves mayonnaise. Why don’t you go ask her about that and explore her blog in the meantime? Did you know that a square number of vowels always indicates sarcasm?)

This salad is a light, tasty, and universally enjoyable mix of cold potatoes, herbs, onions, and a little oil and lemon. It is a perfect accompaniment to any festive meal or picnic, whether eaten in summer sunshine or huddled in the basement during the latest near-tornado.

It’s also a perfect way to break up the heavy autobiographical stuff begun in the past few weeks and finished in the near future.

It’s also Syrian. At least, my family calls it Syrian potato salad. It’s been appearing at family gatherings in summer since I was ten or so.

My source is a recipe from The Syrian-Lebanese Cookbook, as compiled in 1966 by the Shums ‘Il Bir Club, an Orthodox Church ladies’ club “organized in 1925 by the late Metropolitan Archbishop Victor Abouassaley.”

I recognize some of the names on the Cookbook Committee page. They’re the same generation as my great-grandmother and great-great-aunt, both of whom made this as well.

I suspect that this in fact an assimilation recipe, an American staple adapted with Mediterranean flavors by immigrants at the turn of the century. It’s since become a staple among those immigrants’ descendants, you and me. So, what better food to celebrate America and all its cultural roots this weekend?

This is fairly simple and I have packing to do, so pictures will be integrated with the steps this time. You won’t have to scroll too far down, I promise.

Syrian Potato Salad


-6 medium potatoes

-4 sprigs of green onion or 1 small onion (my optional addition: red onion to taste)

-Fresh or dried mint

-1 cup fresh dried pasley

-Juice of 2 lemons

-Salt and pepper to taste

-¼ cup oil )preferably olive: the Syrian-Lebanese ladies 1966 Charleston probably didn’t have the luxury of specifying.)

1. Set a pot of water on medium heat to boil.

Enough water to just cover the potatoes.

Enough water to just cover the potatoes.

2. Give potatoes a good rinse to remove excess dirt.

Potatoes in a colander in a sink, a good way to rinse potatoes.

Potatoes in about to be rinsed in a colander in the sink.

3. Place unpeeled potatoes in boiling water.

Pictured in case you weren't sure about this step.

Pictured in case you weren’t sure about that step.

I usually go by the “stick a fork in every so often to test” method of potato boiling, but you’ll want to boil these about 15-20 minutes, until fork slides in easily and skin starts to fall off.

4. While potatoes are boiling, chop other ingredients. Give the parsley a good rinse, too. You don’t need a colander: just grab the stems and go to town with the sprayer. A plain faucet also works.

Unchopped parsley. Wash your hands now if you haven't already.

Chopped parsley.

I keep a measuring cup nearby to track the amount: half a bunch of parsley is about one cup.

Don't use this batch if you haven't washed your hands by now.

Don’t use this batch if you haven’t washed your hands by now.

5. Also give the green onions a good rinse. Green onions are like giant leeks.

I don't feel the need to rinse the cutting board after post-parsley if it's all going in the same salad. Whatever floats your boat, though.

I don’t feel the need to rinse the cutting board after post-parsley if it’s all going in the same salad. Whatever floats your boat, though.

Cut of the hairy white bulbs and any dark green parts that remind you of grass. Chop the tasty, middle sections into small slices.

Like this.

Like this.

6. The Shums ‘Il Bir Club ladies apparently didn’t use red onion in their potato salad, or it just wasn’t readily available to them. But my family always does: nothing replaces the color and flavor.


I use about a quarter of a large red onion, chopped.


Cut out the piece of onion you want to use, peel off the tough outer layers, slice all other layers one way, then the other.

7. If you’re using fresh mint, you can chop it now. I forgot about it until the end, when I pulled a few leaves off the patch by the deck. I didn’t take a picture.

8. The potatoes should be finished by now.

According to my all-American cookbook from 1964, the water used to boil potatoes or veggies can be chilled and served vitamin-rich pre-dinner drink. I may have tried it once.

According to my all-American cookbook from 1964, the water used to boil potatoes or veggies can be chilled and served vitamin-rich pre-dinner drink. I may have tried it once.

Replace in colander and rinse with cold water. You should be able to peel the skin off with your fingers, provided you’ve washed your hands. Unless you have a fantastic potato peel pie recipe or your garbage disposal is possessed by a ravenous supernatural being, it’s recommended you dispose of the peels in the garbage can.


9. If potatoes are cool enough to handle, chop them now. I like to cut each potato down the middle, shortways, then cube each half.

Did I say they'd be pretty cubes? No I did not.

Did I say they’d be pretty cubes? No I did not.

10. Otherwise, go ahead and add lemon and oil to a large salad bowl, then cube potatoes and toss together.

I did it the other way around.

This is closest we'll get to an Ingredients Assemble! picture.

This is closest we’ll get to an Ingredients Assemble! picture. Recognize this patriotic red bowl from somewhere?

11. Add parsley, onion, mint, and salt and pepper to taste. Toss.

Mmm. A sincere "Mmm."

Mmm. A sincere “Mmm.”

Enjoy for your holiday barbeque, and many meals after that too.

Seriously, this yields a ton. Syrian-Lebanese church ladies, you know.

Until after the long weekend,

The Wednesday Woman

I Was a Fake Cancer Kid, Part I: Life, Now and Then


, , , , ,


I was a fake cancer kid.

That is to say, as a kid I had a disease that looked like cancer, and acted like cancer, and had to be treated like cancer, but wasn’t cancer. It still involved cells multiplying where they weren’t supposed to multiply. But in this case the cells—overeager white blood cells—will eventually stop multiplying on their own, having caused whatever damage along the way.

The disease can be fatal to infants and very small children. I was nine, though. My worst possible outcome was paraparalysis.

I’ll spare you the list of things I couldn’t do during that time, because yawn. Basically I was a no-running-no-jumping-no-rides-but-the-ferris-wheel-and-absolutely-no-trampolines-ever-in-your-life-because-your-fake-cancer-doctor-would-illegalize-them sloth until middle school. (I’m sorry, did I say I’d spare you?) Thank goodness for the laser tag loophole.

I’ll also spare you the gory medical details, because yuck. Though frankly, it’s tough to hold those back. They prove I have some degree of sick kid cred, which honestly, I enjoy having. Especially in this pop culture climate.

But those details are gory, and gross—

(Aaaand I can’t resist so this one time early on I got misdiagnosed and then aggressively treated for constipation and it was sick. Get it?)

–and most of you are here for the food. We’ll have another recipe soon, I promise.

Meanwhile, no medical details. Because, also, I’m now a healthy adult.

I have some wonked out vertebrae, and a metabolism I swear was permanently dismantled by the steroids, and after the restricted motion years I kind of fell out of sync with my own body until just before college, but otherwise there have been no lasting after effects. I’ve danced in shows and even jump on the trampoline once in a while. (Sadly, our laser tag arena, which was da bomb, is now closed.)

I am very much an ex-sick kid. It is my largest and most singular privilege. I get the cred from having suffered and having once faced my mortality for about five seconds, and no current suffering.

If that weren’t pretty damn insufferable already, imagine reading 500 more words about which tube went in which orifice. It’d be the ultimate humblebrag, which is a humblebrag in itself.

So, attempting to leave the humblebrags behind, here’s the context in brief:

There were nearly two years of diagnosis, treatment, and sporadic unpleasantness, during which time my Beanie Baby collection exploded (figuratively), which was great–my friends, and everyone I knew, were great—and I missed most lessons on cursive in school, which is still not so great.

The very worst time was when I had to turn down the role of Piglet in a community theater musical. Now, the worst
part of the whole thing is thinking of what my family went through, but the Piglet thing left wounds that weren’t healed until the dawn of high school drama club.

Which by the way, I don’t plan to blog about, because it’s still too soon.

University theater, on the other hand, I got about six latent novels from, so we’ll see.

Whatever. There were a few surgeries, a few hospital stays, radiation treatment and later chemo. Mild chemo, mind you. I spent a lot of time in a waiting room with actual bald kids.

Just before fifth grade, around when my port was removed, I saw a blurb in my American Girl Magazine about Locks for Love,
then had my hair cut short for the first time in years. I didn’t lose much beyond what I gave away (and hated how I looked after, let’s be clear).

There was a bout of osteoporosis in seventh grade, but it cleared up. Bone scans were fine. They were much quicker than MRIs, and the waiting room was quiet.

My last appointment was in ninth grade. I got permission to join the school rowing team, which did not help me re-sync with my body.

As I said, now my body’s pretty much synced. And keeping it that way has become important to me, because I can.

But for a while, I was a fake cancer kid.

Or maybe, without lessening the gravity of other cases, it’s more accurate to say I had “cancer lite.”

Should there be demand, more on chemo, mortality, and A Troll in Central Park in Part II.

In the meantime, brownies or cake? Please vote in the comments.

Slowly reining in the word count,
The Wednesday Woman

Stats, going back to last week:

-Ran: 5k today, 7k Sunday, more before that

-Worked: Full time on new schedule

-Entered: Lots and lots and lots of company data

-Viewed: That very big movie based on that very big book I can’t comment on directly for professional reasons.

-Sat: A long time in other people’s yards/pool decks this weekend.

-Wrote: This, and the start of a new story from an old idea.

-Cooked: Are you kidding, I’m barely managing to pack my own lunches lately.

-Driven: A lot.

-Read: Via audiobook.

*There was a slight chance of the radiation affecting fertility. There’s no evidence this is the case, but check back when I’m trying to conceive.

Seventh Grade Gothic Horror: A Dramatic Reading


, , , , , , , ,

You know what I did in middle school? 

I went to the library. 

Seriously, that’s mostly what I did. 

At some point, in the spring of seventh grade, I also wrote this. At about 6,500 words, it was the longest piece of fiction I’d completed to date. I thought I had a novel on my hands.  

Keep that in mind as you’re listening. 

I was a Girl Scout, I did academic extracurriculars, I anticipated the high school drama program, but mostly I went to the library. Unless I was researching for something, it was mostly in the YA section. Imagine the 70s/80s/90s YA books that populated our YA section in the early 2000s before the library was remodeled. 

Again, please keep that in mind as you listen. 

This is a scary story about a sculpture with strange and deadly powers. It also deals with contemporary teens and their Issues, as seen by a kid who spent a lot of time in the YA section of the library. 

Later, I might have to add some actual trigger warnings. You may want to avoid this section, though, if you’ve ever experienced Mary Sue level night terrors from a mysterious supernatural cause. 


(Also I just had way too much fun playing with Audacity.) 


The Wednesday Woman

PS: Yes, I know it’s Tuesday, but my schedule’s been all flipped around and I’m adjusting. 

UPDATE: It’s now Wednesday, and something is fixed in the audio. Still, enjoy.

Yes This Woman

(When necessary, insert tongue lightly into cheek.)

This woman is a huge promoter of the concept that women are individuals, and not all women will share her experience or ideas.

This woman doesn’t believe being a woman has ever put her at a disadvantage, except when it comes to metabolizing carbs.

But then, this woman has been enormously advantaged in other ways, and often wonders if she could have accomplished what she has done if that weren’t the case.

This woman has had times when she’s pretty sure she wasn’t being taken seriously because she was a woman, but never in a context where that would affect her progress or success.

This woman has also had times when she’s pretty sure she was being taken more seriously because she was a woman, but never in a context where that would affect her progress or success.

This woman believes being a woman might prove an advantage in one of her chosen fields, but she fears her having put herself in situations where she was taken less seriously as a woman will count as a mark against her.

In her current job, this woman works in an all-female department, supervised by women.  This woman does not feel being a woman here will keep her from rising to a leadership position herself.

This woman’s office dress code prohibits revealing clothing for women and men alike.

If this woman liked buzzwords, she’d call her workplace a “safe space.”

Then again, this woman works in the Midwest, so what does she know?

Because this woman has avoided any serious violence thus far, she tends to feel lots of spaces are safe, even when they probably aren’t.

This woman likes taking long, late evening walks when she can’t sleep.

This woman once took a long, late evening walk in a part of Manchester in which, looking back, she really didn’t need to be walking after dark.

This woman knows it sucks that she needs to think about these things, more so than a man does, but knows that the world sucks in a great many ways and doubts that overhauling the culture will let her walk around iffy parts of Manchester after dark.

What really gets to the woman, though, is the fact she can’t sit on a damn bench in a nice part of Manchester in the middle of the day and enjoy the damn sunshine and her damn generic library copy of Couples and her damn Cornetto without some damn middle aged drunk dude (open containers seem pretty unregulated in the UK, and yes I’ve enjoyed beer in the park over there) approaching her and going “BLARBORLAHFUAH!”.  Because clearly her very existence invites whatever the hell this is.

Because she encounters things like this in innocuous environments (and she reads a lot of writing from other women), this woman has a history of seeing some probably safe spaces as not-safe, because that’s the safe way to go.   

This woman received her first unwanted touch at thirteen, at school, from a classmate. She gave him the dramatic reaction he was probably looking for.

This woman got really freaked out at seventeen when a couple guys pulled over to chat her up while she was walking to a neighbor’s house.

At twenty-two, this woman poured a free drink down the bathroom sink in a student bar, because the guy who handed it to her didn’t know what was in it. He had one of the same drinks himself, probably provided by the same friends who’d gotten him smashed and found him a girl (this woman) to dance with/talk to/?

This woman takes precautions, and wants her sister, who’s heading off to college this year, to do so too. Because the world sucks, and our acting as if it doesn’t won’t do us any favors.

The same holds true for everyone, male and female.

As a side note, based on nothing but casual observation and conjecture, this woman believes that if boys aren’t being taught not to rape, it’s often because it’s assumed they won’t.  

As another side note, this woman has reached a point where she just can’t be suffered to care about The Vagina Monologues.  

(This woman’s alma mater puts on an annual production built from interviews with current and recent students, covering sexual assault and relationships, which she considers a much more relevant and production approach of opening discussion. She worked on this production all four years but is totally not biased at all.)

This woman again acknowledges that her experience and ideas may have nothing at all to do with yours. “You” including multiple posters on the #YesAllWomen feed.

This woman believes women’s being individuals accounts for what she saw as inconsistencies in the #YesAllWomen feed. (To which she did contribute, without having much to say. Until now, for what it’s worth.)

One of this woman’s life goals is to become a person people want to listen to, and hopes something came of this post besides her getting a chance to talk for a while.

That said, this woman has nothing to say about guns or birth control that someone else won’t have said better.

This woman is close to hitting 900 words and needs to go straighten her hair for work. The fact she’s spending precious time on her hair is something we’ll all have to take up with ourselves.


This Woman

(Want more self-indulgence? Watch this space over the next few days! I’ll be posting a dramatic reading of a story I wrote in middle school. And by “middle school”, I mean, “roughly four months after that jagoff* touched my ass.”

Or just check back for more food at some point. Whichever. ) 

Triple Chocolate Peppermint Cookies (aka “Friendmakers”)


, , , , , ,

A while ago I promised something tasty for the blog. That was before I moved. Apologies for the delay, and the pictures of my less than tasty books and furniture. I hope what follows makes up for it.

This started out as a recipe “inside out chocolate chip cookies” in my mother’s Betty Crocker Cookie cookbook. I used the book as a reference in multiple baking ventures growing up, with varying results.

On a whim I made inside out chocolate chip cookies for a school event in 2001/eighth grade. By this point, I could make cookies. Classmates loved them, and as this was eighth grade and anything that earned classmates’ love was something to hang onto, I continued to make them when an occasion arose. Again, with varying results, but as years went on successful batches increased.

Through high school I experimented with my own tweaks. I learned other extracts existed besides vanilla, and seized on peppermint, a favorite flavor, as variant.

The original recipe calls only for white chocolate chips, but once I ran low on cocoa powder and added some semisweet chocolate chips to make up for it.

(That was for a school play’s opening night. The cookies went over very well. One castmate said I’d make a great mom one day. Of course I kept on baking them.)

At some point, probably in college, I was doing my own grocery shopping and discovered dark cocoa powder. For me, using it was a no-brainer.

Beyond college, long in the habit of baking these with all butter or margarine and no shortening, I realized that Betty Crocker included the shortening for a reason. The reason being fudgy, non-crumbly texture.

I also played with the sugar amounts over the years, eventually acknowledging that they do make a difference and settling for an ideal proportion.

A few Christmases ago, my then-to-be-soon-sister-in-law gave me a recipe album, and I finally recorded what I now consider my signature cookie recipe.

In the album, which is hiding in a storage tub somewhere even though I referred to it less than a week before the move (yeah), I called these “Friendmakers.” “Triple Chocolate Peppermint Cookies”, though, is more likely to get page views.

Call them what you like. Adapt to your taste. Shift ingredients and steps as you have to, based on what’s in your cupboard or at the store: I did so plenty of times, living abroad, where brown sugar gets complicated and I didn’t own working beaters. (Chocolate chips are also rare in the UK: when I moved there for grad school, I brought a few bags along. Be prepared to break up a bar if you live outside the US.)

This is recorded from memory. Minor edits may be made as necessary. Pictures are below.


Triple Chocolate Peppermint Cookies (“Friendmakers”)
Yield: 3-4 dozen cookies, depending on size

Dry Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup dark cocoa powder (or regular, if you’re one of those people)

Not Dry Ingredients:
¾ cup butter (or margarine, if you must)
½ cup shortening
1/2 cup packed brown sugar (NOT demarrara, but muscavado in a pinch)
3/4 cup granulated white sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp peppermint extract (optional: leave out, or try orange or almond for a variation. Plain mint extract is also acceptable.)
1 tsp vanilla extract (Softens the stronger flavors)

Chocolate chips:
4-6 oz semi-sweet chocolate chips, to taste (1/4-1/2 pckg)
6-8 oz white chocolate chips (1/2-3/4s pckg)
(Note: it’s tempting to add more, but dough will only hold so many chocolate chips. If preferred, do shift proportion in favor of semi-sweet.)

1. Preheat oven to 350F/176.666C. Combine dry ingredients in medium bowl. I don’t see a practical reason for this, as ingredients don’t need sifting as they’d do for cake or muffins, but it will make your life easier and probably gets them incorporated thoroughly.

2. Cream butter, shortening, sugars, eggs and extracts until smooth. If you’re into eating bits of the butter and sugar mixture, cream that first and then add the eggs. Wash your hands.

3. Slowly add dry ingredients and continue to mix until incorporated, using beaters to scrape sides of the bowl. I say “slowly”, because splattered cocoa powder is a bitch to clean off the side of a white fridge.

(Related Note: The school play mentioned above took place post-nuclear apocalypse. The make-up notes in our script suggested cocoa powder in lieu of mud for actors allergic to the latter. Seriously, be careful with this stuff.)

4. Stir in chocolate chips. Eat strays. Wash your hands.

5. Drop dough on cookie sheets by rounded tablespoon or teaspoonfuls, leaving at least an inch of space for spread. Use a fancy cookie scoop if you own one, otherwise go slowly with your spoon and knife. Wash your hands.

6. Bake for 8-10 minutes. Ideally, allow to cool on cooling rack. Wash your hands.

If you’re not preparing for public consumption, you can be a little more lax about making perfect circles of dough and/or washing your hands.

These pictures are from Memorial Day weekend. This batch was for my sister’s high school graduation party, so public consumption was a big factor.

Dry ingredients assemble. The chicken is a salt-shaker. My family has kind of a sentimentally driven chicken-themed table accessory thing going on.

Dry ingredients assemble. The chicken is a salt-shaker. My family has kind of a sentimentally driven chicken-themed table accessory thing going on.

White dry ingredients combined, with attempt at  visual interest by measuring cup.

White dry ingredients combined, with attempt at visual interest by measuring cup.

If I had a picture of the cocoa powder mixed with the white ingredients, maybe I'd feel more comfortable saying something about integration.

If I had a picture of the cocoa powder mixed with the white ingredients, maybe I’d use the word “integration.”

One of those butter sticks is getting cut in half, as is the shortening block. Again, the shortening is less expendable than we'd like.

One of those butter sticks is getting cut in half, as is the shortening block. Again, the shortening is less expendable than we’d like.

Oh yeah, and it's a good idea to soften the butter and shortening first. Butter clumps are no fun to clean up either.

Oh yeah, and it’s a good idea to soften the butter and shortening first. Butter clumps are no fun to clean up either.

Note, no eggs or extract.

Note, no eggs or extract.

I like to add them after.

I like to add them after.

I question my bowl choice here. It's a good color for Memorial Day but it really washes out the dough.

I question my bowl choice here. The color works for Memorial Day but really washes the dough out.

I add the dry mixture in three or four batches, and beat carefully between adds.

I add the dry mixture in three or four batches, and beat carefully between adds.

It's always tempting not to scrape the bowl too well.

It’s always tempting not to scrape the bowl too well.

Especially when you get to this stage.

Especially when you get to this stage.

I was too focused on making this happen to get any photos of the process. (Public consumption, good looking circls, etc.) Note that because these are little guys, teaspooners, there are in fact--

I was too focused on making this happen to get any photos of the process. (Public consumption, good looking circles, etc.) Note that due to the event these are little guys, teaspooners, and there are in fact–

--three trays, but one is less photogenic than the other two.

–three trays, but one is less photogenic than the other two.

Post-oven. It's important to check the bottoms near the end of baking time: these don't really change color as they bake, so can look less done than they are.

Post-oven. It’s important to check the bottoms near the end of baking time: these don’t really change color as they bake, so can look less done than they are.

Better than the spam close-up, huh?

Better than the spam close-up, huh?

Mmm, get out the milk. Cover photot/Pin bait. Also unless you're in a hurry don't put these in tupperware until they're cool. That makes baked goods soggy. So I'm told.

Mmm, get out the milk. Cover photot/Pin bait. Also unless you’re in a hurry don’t put these in tupperware until they’re cool. That makes baked goods soggy. So I’m told.

Not pictured: the “spilling out of the cookie jar onto the platter” arrangement one the party host moms came up with. Where us spatially challenged would be without those party host moms, I don’t know.

Until later,

The Wednesday Woman

(PS: Would like to do a post on the feminism of a movie about average janes doing right by their kingdom because it’s what they do vs a movie about a movie about a sexy chick being driven and defined by her male perpetrated victimization , but then I’d have spend money and time watching the latter movie, and my friend at Precisely What Exists just posted that article about reviewing stuff you haven’t read or watched.

Meanwhile, in the interest of staying relevant to Googlers, MALEFICENT MALEFICENT MALEFICENT)

TBH, I Never Got into Little Mermaid, But

Look at this stuff


Isn’t it neat?


Wouldn’t you think my packing’s complete


Wouldn’t you think I’m the girl
Who’s thought of everything?


Look at this room
Crannies untold

Bottles courtesy of multiple drinkers over the course of more than a year. I swear.

Bottles courtesy of multiple drinkers over the course of more than a year. I swear.

How many books can one of these hold?


Looking around here you think
Sure, she’ll get everything


I’ve got dishes and chargers a plenty
I’ve got notebooks and knick-knacks galore


You want OTC drugs?
I’ve got twenty!

(Not pictured: the bathroom)

So deep breath
No big deal
Look, there’s more.


I got a few days to sort all this out
I’m gonna clear, gonna clear these cupboards
Look in the freezer and-what’s in there again?


Oh, meeeeat

That’s why this is what I’m bloggin’ about
Not movies or baking or something insightful
Spent the whole morning finding my (temporary) storage unit
Since GPS doesn’t recognize the streeeeet.

So I will be back
After I pack
And not succumb to a panic attack

It’s so much fun
Wish I was done
Trying to mooooove.

(Disclaimer: Most of these pictures were in fact taken on Sunday. Hope your holiday was wonderful and relaxing.)

when things of heaven are wed to those of earth


Yes, shenanigans. And spot-on.

Originally posted on precisely what exists:

This past weekend I had the privilege of attending my friend Katie’s wedding at an Antiochian Orthodox church on the South Side of Chicago. Unlike probably most of the people on the bride’s side of the church, I have attended Orthodox (and Byzantine Catholic) liturgies in the past, and one of my good friends is Antiochian Orthodox (we took a Mariology class together at Notre Dame and shenanigans ensued). But this was my first Orthodox-of-any-kind wedding, and I was incredibly excited about witnessing a liturgy most people recognize only from My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

People complain about those Roman Catholic papists with their elaborate churches and decorations and gold everywhere but let me tell you, we ain’t got nothin’ on the Orthodox.

View original 960 more words


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 32 other followers