target audience = me

Pedigree, the dog food brand, has been running an ad campaign to promote their dog-adoption drive. There are several that focus on individual dogs in shelters (all have since been adopted, I learned on the website). One ad, however, gets me every time. It shows several dogs in shelter pens, most with that typical kind of confused look that dogs tend to have, with a voice-over of the dogs' shared internal monologue.

I can't remember it verbatim, but it ends, "I don't know how I got here. I just know I'm a good dog, and I want to go home."

AUGH! Heart...knotting...need...doggy...

(The pup above, by the way, is a Scotch terrier mix named Oatmeal, also now happily ensconced in a loving home.)

Look, I'm not a psychotic activist with an all-consuming passion for the fauna of our world; Lord knows I've yet to meet a spider I don't wish dead several times over. However, I've lived for too long in pet-prohibited buildings, and I feel, very strongly, that lacking something that comes from having a furry little face to greet me at the door. I always had a dog growing up, and as soon as I'm allowed, I will always have pets from this point forward. For a little food and shelter, we get unconditional love, and I can think of few things more wonderfully solid in our increasingly disconnected electronic age.

If you feel so inclined, you can donate to the adoption campaign at Pedigree's site. Or spread the word to friends who are looking for pets, or just give your own furry companion an extra scratch behind the ears or belly rub. They should know just how lucky they are, and I think you should too.

how my husband shops for groceries

Jim: "So I was leaving the beer, and I was looking at the list as I prepared to go up to food storage, over to the cheese and back down through frozen, when I realized I had forgotten the chocolates. I would have to backtrack! But then, see, I noticed the seasonal aisle right on my way, with all the Valentine's chocolate. And I thought, "Ah-hah! I know I can find something here." Isn't that great?"

And I used to wonder why he still talks about the day in Paris when we forgot the good map at a café.

yip yip

These things scared the bejeepers out of me when I was a child.

My husband had never seen them until tonight.

Enjoy.

PETA is coming for my soul

Tonight I made mussels again. I have done this only twice in my lifetime -- prepared mussels at home, that is -- a fact which shocked (shocked!) the Freeds a couple of weeks ago. Alisa and I, you know, both adore mussels, and I think our husbands are on the positive side of "liking more than normal," so it's odd I never took the plunge (...hee!) and made them at home.

However, making mussels does take a fair amount of planning. They are not the kind of protein you can bring home and keep in the fridge for a day or two before you get around to cooking them, so it's really one of those things where you have to be shopping with "What am I going to make tonight?" firmly in the forefront of the mind.

They were delicious a couple of weeks ago, though, thanks to Jim doing the hard work of debearding, and I decided to make them again tonight, so I went to Wild Oats to procure some good Prince Edward Island specimens.

I had a coupon to use, so while I was there I also splurged on some lamb rib chops.

This got me to thinking about when my parents or my aunt and uncle would send solicited, or unsolicited, packages of meat (hi, Mom!). The meat in all its forms was uniformly fantastic, but I was particularly entranced by the gorgeous frenched rack of lamb, which really did not seem to be beyond the realm of reasonable price, even compared to that available in this here neck of the woods.

I started surfing around Lobel's tonight, then, to see what I could find.

Frankly? Their rack of lamb is obscenely affordable, unless I've been going to the wrong butchers up here, and I'm not implicating the marked-up grocery stores in that comment (I'm looking at you, butcher-on-Brackett-whom-I-won't-name-here-for-liability-reasons). So forget the financial implications -- it's tax time, after all, and we're due a big refund -- I'm thinking it's time to order* something delicious from The Powers That Be.

Dinner's at 7, if you're interested.


*Ordering postponed until we determine definitively if, and what, our tax refund will be. IRS, are you reading? Good.

an open letter to my best friend regarding the possibility of a party chez elle

That is all.

why i love laura soto

On her primary artistic choices in decorating her apartment:

Laura: "I like a whole lot of crap going on...and a donkey."

Me: "Well, there ya go, then."

procrast in motion

What I need to do:

Prep 1000 pages (give or take) of new SAT teaching materials.

Watch the DVD of Broadway Junior's "Disney's Aladdin" to learn the choreography I'll be teaching.

Copy-edit a 215-page manuscript in my new job as a freelance book editor.



What I am actually doing:

Looking up recipes for bourbon-pecan pie, blackberry trifle, chocolate bread pudding, and the best method of making my own breadcrumbs.

Wondering if Rachel's and my in-laws' recent adherence to the first phase of South Beach has triggered a previously-unknown inherent sadistic urge to cook carbohydrates.

It's not that I can't focus. I'm supremely able to fixate on a single concept, such as "Bread! Yum!" It would seem, rather, that I am singularly incapable of focusing on what actually needs my attention.

Pecan pie, anyone?

cute for the common cold

I definitely default to needing extra cuteness in my life when I'm sick:




The January kitten on my kitten-a-month calendar;






More kittens, on a birthday card from EB;









The flowers Jim got me to cheer me up;






My first subscription issue of Food & Wine, which came with an offer of two free issues of Real Simple.




"Wait a second," you're thinking to yourself. "One of these things is not like the others." Well, I take my cues from Mr. Carroll:

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less."

Sounds good to me. Kittens and gourmet ingredients both fit the "cute" bill on days like today, when I need to escape the bonds of sinus congestion.

Unless I stumble on a recipe for marinated tabby with edible flowers. Then I'll know I've got to cut back on the pseudoephedrine.

what did i ever do to you, el niño?

It's sixty-three degrees out. An azure sky filled with cotton-candy clouds lightly caresses southern Maine.

I'm wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea, trying to pronounce my sibilants and liquids* clearly, and attempting to keep the contents of my sinus cavity and lungs firmly where they belong. Worst of all? I'm going to have to miss out on the Freeds' glorious hasenpfeffer.

I've clearly pissed of the weather anomalies in charge. Great. That bodes well for the year.


*To the linguistics experts among my reading cohort (of which there are several): Apologies for messing up my articulation nomenclature. I did the best I could in the germ-induced haze.

happy birthday to sneeze

My birthday present to myself was to wait until after January 2 to contract the Head Cold from Hell that everyone else in my immediate vicinity has had.

However, now that I've done so, I have to seek out entertainment that I can enjoy while bundled on the couch, clutching a mug of tea.

Thank heavens for the internet.



I, too, dislike the piece of music in question with a fair amount of fervor. But whether due to this guy's hilarity or the Dayquil (or both), I could listen to the version(s) of it in this clip over and over and over again.

Welcome to twenty-eight.

young enough to get (gift) carded

Functional and cute outfits I should buy with my Banana Republic gift cards:



Adorable but entirely unneeded bag I want to buy with my Banana Republic gift cards:

I should not be allowed to shop on the eve of my birthday. It makes the irresponsible choice far too tempting.

happy happy

We went to Lyette and Jay's wedding last night on Cape Cod.

The Greek Orthodox ceremony was fascinating (and beautiful). We gave the Freeds a ride to the church, and on the way back the four of us tried to remember when the split between the Catholic and Orthodox churches happened.

The conversation went something like this:

Alisa: "That wasn't all that dissimilar from the Catholic ceremony."

Leigh: "I guess that's not all that surprising, right?"

Jim: "Wait...who was Justinian?"

Dick: "The pope, or the emperor?"

And so on. Yes, we're that geeky.

Anyway, we returned to the lovely Coonamessett Inn, and in true Mercier/Spiros form, we celebrated. (Read: much food, wine, and awesome music. Woo!)

Lyette and Jay just glowed. It was a great way to start a holiday weekend.

Mazel tov, y'all! And happy new year!

maize

A few years ago -- OK, more than a few, since it was before I knew him -- my husband got his parents a stovetop popcorn popper for Christmas.

After his mother made some pretty fantastic spicy popcorn, Jim became enamored of the popcorn popper. He wanted one. A lot.

More than life, libery, and the pursuit of happiness, or at least so it seemed.

All season long, I've been telling folks at work -- both of the coworker and customer variety -- that my husband has wanted a Whirley Pop for years. I got assorted reactions to this statement, mostly of the "You look so young, you can't possibly have known you husband for years unless you married him when you were both underage" type. (I generally ignored those.)

It's true, though; Jim has been jonesing for a stovetop popper pretty much as long as I've known him, and I kept shooting it down. I like my microwave popcorn just fine, you see, and I just couldn't conscience anything more.

But.

Today, when I got in to work, I was put on the task of repricing all the post-Christmas sale items. It was mostly cookbooks and random holiday food items, but one thing jumped out at me.

Whirleys were down to $11.99 (and on that I get a 20% discount).

I hemmed.

I hawed.

I got Jim a Whirley Pop.

And I have to say? He looks pretty happy right about now.

all i want for christmas

My parents got me a crepe pan, collapsible silicone measuring cups and colander, and a fondue cookbook.

My husband got me an electric garlic roaster.

My in-laws got me chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate.

My parents got me a fantastic clothing gift-card.

My husband got me makeup and a makeup gift-card.

My in-laws got me a makeup gift-card.

Do you think I'm predictable?

I do.

I also think it's time to hit the gym.

And then the mall.

the best things in life are fried

Last night I made a gazillion latkes, and now my house smells like fried oniony potato. Yum.

I've actually never made latkes before, despite their ovewhelmingly delicious nature. (Does anything take as well to frying as a potato? I think not.) I have extraordinarily fond memories of scarfing up perfectly crisp potato pancakes in my grandma's kitchen every Chanukah. Mom reminded me this morning that my grandfather actually did the frying, which I can vaguely recall; more, though, I see both Gram and Poppoo in my mind's eye doing a complicated dance around the stove, trying to stay out of each other's way -- and most likely failing, but that was all part of the fun.

I did not follow my grandma's recipe exactly, since she used to use Crisco and I used vegetable oil last night. I also chose to forgo the time-honored secret ingredient of so many Jewish-family latke recipes (knuckles), so I chucked the box grater and used the grating disk on my Cuisinart for the first time ever. Spinny! Woo!

Yes, I have a warped sense of what is and is not fun.

And what is fun? Making several batches of regular potato pancakes and several of potato-zucchini pancakes with accompaniments of applesauce, sour cream, and horseradish sour cream. I also served a smoked salmon cucumber roulade, but I think I rolled it the wrong way, so when I tried to slice it it kind of, um, fell apart. (My guests and I inhaled it anyway, so I can assure you it still tasted good -- it just looked terrible.) Seems there's just something about having a bunch of good friends over for a lot of latkes that makes it a party.

There's also just something, at least with me involved, about it not being a party until something runs wildly amok. Last night, that moment came after the menorah candles burned out and we lit all the other candles -- and, briefly, the tablecloth, which was the second casualty of the night. It followed closely on the heels of the first, a wine glass, unfortunately full of wine, that fell prey to the power of the Wii-mote.

(Given how many wineglasses I have destroyed in my life just through my own klutziness, last night's Nintendo-related accident is still, to my mind better than putting a big hole in a wall we don't own, shattering a television set, or tearing one's rotator cuff. And I usually burn me when entertaining, not an utterly replaceable piece of inexpensive fabric. So I'm not unduly perturbed, I gotta say.)

I even found myself inclined to load up some holiday-ish music. The playlist comprised Hanukkah Rocks and New Orleans Christmas (thanks Rachel!!). The cheesy carols playing on endless loop at the mall get to me -- not that I have any experience hearing the same fifteen songs over and over and over for nine hours, no, not at all -- but last night's combination was the perfect musical antidote to all that.

My original reason for the having the party, I can now admit, was slightly selfish. I've been feeling rather Grinchlike lately, almost like I've been caught out of time in an entirely different part of the year. Having friends over, though, makes a holiday out of any moment. So while I still have to break out The Messiah at some point this week, and there's no snow on the ground? Last night was a pretty great holiday.

maybe choosing to take pucks to the head is a sign

I am not entirely sure what this phenomenon says about me, given that my favorite players are always goalies.

In fact, interviewing CuJo was far and away the highlight of my brief career as a sports -- all right, a hockey -- columnist. This is, I should add, the same career (for the illustrious (snrk!) establishment of the John Burroughs World) during which I actually finagled a press pass and got to sit in the fabulously luxurious press box at a Blues game in the then-new Kiel Center. I did so on a night that will live in my memory as the night I met Bobby Hull, who was drunk and hit on me while his son scored a double hat trick. I also met Bobby Orr, who was a true gentleman and herded the lascivious Hull away from the wide-eyed, relatively freaked-out girl in the elevator who was frantically taking notes on a steno pad, which she only had because she thought it was somehow reporter-esque.

Not to say I didn't turn the experience into a column. I did. No one much cared, including me.

But the day I got to linger outside the locker room after pre-skate and ask what had to be the dumbest questions ever ("So, uh, do you get tired during games?") to a young and probably at least moderately unbalanced guy who had the image of a rabid evil dog painted on his helmet?

Pure joy. Did I turn it into a column? Probably. Did anyone care? Hells yeah. CuJo was a god back then.

Goalies may be crazy, but their fans? Positively wacked.

warning: theatre geek-out

Oh Doogie....



(Although the best part might be stage veteran Megan Mullally nearly losing it when they hit the counterpoint.)

either they like me, or i'm a pushover

Speaking of aprons, if you need me over the next few weeks, you might want to try Williams-Sonoma at the Maine Mall at the following times:

Thursday 12/7, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Friday 12/8, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Monday 12/11, 2 p.m. - 6 p.m.
Tuesday 12/12, 12 p.m. - 5 p.m. E.T.A.: 11:30 a.m. -6 p.m.
Thursday 12/14, 1 p.m. - 6 p.m. (Happy birthday, Mom!)
Friday 12/15, 11 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.
Saturday 12/16, 1 p.m. - 9 p.m.*
Tuesday 12/19, 12:30 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.
Wednesday 12/20, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Thursday 12/21, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Friday 12/22, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Saturday 12/23, 10 a.m. - 5 p.m.

On the upside, the net pay just might cover everything I've bought there this season. Woo-hoo!

*I don't normally work this type of late-ending shift, but I traded with a friend who forgot she needed that day off. Might as well, right?

i think i need a new apron, too

I woke up this morning to snow.

I am overwhelmed by a desire to spend the day baking.

Betty Friedan is probably spinning in her grave because of me.

Still, I bet she'd like my cookies.

"choose monkeys or penguins"

But what if I wanted one of each?

In reality I neither want nor need these, but I do think they are the cutest things I've seen in the "entirely non-essential gadget" category in a long long time.

Plus the ad copy is unintentionally hilarious. Good times, good times.