And no, I’ve not abandoned blogging. I haven’t vanished, nor fallen off the earth or into a ditch by the side of the road. Though certainly, I appreciate the concern – voiced by many of you dear souls – that I could be, I’m not. I am in fact just where we left off: squinting at a laptop, coffee to the left, Cleo near my feet and two steps from the kitchen.

So then, where have I been?

As noted, mostly here. I’ve been working on the work of writing – a few projects, each requiring keyboard, coffee, and 10% nuts-90% chocolate trail mix. Nothing to announce. Just send love, luck, and extra chocolate chips.

We spent Josie’s spring break here:

Of course, not in this spot, not the whole time.

We were also here

And eating, here

And oh please more, here.

We had wonderful meals in NYC and met up with new and old friends, including Amanda and Merrill, the brilliant ladies of food52…

…and surrounded by waves and sky, one great big grande dame.

Back home, Simmer’s been hopping around the web. Both PaulaDeen.com and Flashlight Worthy Books featured our Great Reads for Culinary Kids (and Hungry Adults) lists, and the New York Daily News blog Mothership Meals tapped Two-Bite Jam Tarts as a baking pick for picky kids.

So there we are. How pleasurable to speak fluent Simmer again, an odd language I use when talking to a warm, invisible group that’s not invisible at all. Still simmering, and glad you’re here.

Wait! You don’t need that intro again. You don’t need to hear me wax poetic about books in the trees, or Jo March, or the Bobbsey Twin’s Luau.  You just need to know that today we’re revisiting Great Reads for Culinary Kids, and that we’ve added marvelous reader suggestions to the list, and have plenty of room for more.

Here’s the original list Josie and I compiled, plus a new selection from our readers. They run from picture books to young adult (or 42-year old adult). Do you have a favorite food read, or a great food scene you never forgot? Add yours to the list. Happy (and Hungry) Reading.

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Fanny at Chez Panisse Alice Waters, 1997

Truly charming story-plus-cookbook by a culinary royal. Alice Waters describes how her young daughter, Fanny, spends her days at mom’s famous Berkeley restaurant, sorting tiny eggplants, hiding in stock pots and watching chefs at work.

Bread and Jam for Frances Russell Hoban, 1964

Frances will only eat bread and jam, so her mother gives it to her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would like to reenact this as “Deep Dish Pizza for Marilyn.”

Blueberries for Sal Robert McCloskey, 1948

The classic picture book of blueberry picking, a bear cub, mothers and life in Maine.

Amelia Bedelia Peggy Parish, 1963

I always liked the many good qualities of free-spirited Amelia Bedelia: she was a tall, skinny smiler, and she cheerfully screwed up everything. I particularly admired the way she could neutralize any angry person by feeding them lemon meringue pie.

In the Night Kitchen Maurice Sendak, 1970

Though there was controversy over the depiction of a nearly baked-in-a-cake naked boy, all I saw was a fantastical look at how a bakery worked overnight. Sendak’s illustrated world – especially with flour and sugar – never fails to stop me in my tracks.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar Eric Carle, 1969

The classic caterpillar eats every food in sight, until he finds all he really needs is one plain and perfect green leaf. Truth? I didn’t want him to eat the leaf. I wanted him to keep eating salami and ice cream.

Eloise in Paris Kay Thompson, 1957

I was lucky to inherit a stack of 60′s-era Eloise books, and Paris was my favorite. Her champagne cork necklace! Baguettes! Dinner at Maxim’s! It was all rawther delicious.

Little House in the Big Woods Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1932

I could blog every day for a year about the Ingalls family and how they rest in the mind of most every woman I know – but for now I’ll just serve highlights: maple syrup snow, sideboard of pies, sour pickles, a crackling pig’s tail. Onion wreaths in the root cellar. So memorable were Laura’s food passages that they eventually filled The Little House Cookbook, as noted in this lovely post by Paige Smith Orloff.

Strega Nona Tomie DePaola, 1979

A wise Italian witch with the power to conjure up pasta. What’s not to love?

Heidi Johanna Spyri, 1880

One of my all-time favorites, the story of a Swiss girl and her grandfather in the Alps is really about toasting golden cheese, curing sausages, warm goat’s milk, and soft white bakery rolls. Do not be fooled by the jacket copy. It’s all about the food.

Anatole Eve Titus, 1956

And here is where Simmer readers fall down. Yes indeed, I love a book about a mouse, a mouse who wears a beret and tastes cheese in the cheese factory. When I first read it – decades before the pear incident – I was dazzled by his little scarf, and all those Bries and bleus.

Strawberry Girl Lois Lenski, 1945

A terrific book I never forgot – Lois Lenski’s story of hard living for rural Florida “crackers,” a detailed, often sad picture of Birdie Boyer and the tough world around her. Strawberries are everywhere, all about growing them, picking them, eating them. A classic for 9-12 readers.

James and the Giant Peach Roald Dahl, 1961

This book made me dream of waking up, rolling over and eating chunks of peach from the wall. Enough said.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone J.K. Rowling, 1997

Oh sure, there’s dueling and wands and danger, but what thrills me at Hogwarts is dessert. I mean, Dumbledore claps his hands and profiteroles fill the hall. Magic, or what?

Suggested by readers and family, the additions:

Farmer Boy Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1933

Both my 13-year-old daughter Josie and the full-grown Merrill Stubbs from food52 added another Laura Ingalls Wilder classic, Farmer Boy. The story of Almanzo Wilder – young Laura’s future husband – is possibly the most food-rich “Little House” book of all. And that’s certainly due to the prosperity of the New York State Wilders, who were always ready to feast: flapjacks and eggnog, braided donuts and candy, roast pork and golden pumpkins.

Dim Sum for Everyone! Grace Lin, 2001

Reader Julie Whitehorn suggested great books like Frank Asch’s Moonbear and Karen Wallace’s Scarlett Beane, but the one that caught my dumpling-loving eye was Grace Lin’s Dim Sum For Everyone! A girl visits a dim sum restaurant with her family and chooses treats to share from the rolling trolleys: cakes, buns, tarts and – of course – dumplings.

All-of-a-Kind Family Sydney Taylor, 1951

Both blogging singer Emma Wallace and my super-reader cousin Robin noted one of Josie’s all-time favorites, the All-of-a-Kind Family series. The books tell the story of a Jewish family living on New York’s Lower East Side in the early 1900′s – wonderful characters, but what everyone seems to remember is the food: penny candy varieties like chocolate babies, chicken corn, lemon-snap and ginger; stuffed sour cream blintzes and pickles, and descriptions of “chick peas! fine, hot chickpeas!”

A Girl of the Limberlost Gene Stratton Porter, 1909

Savour Fare’s Kate suggested this unusual classic, the story of Elnora Comstock, a poor rural girl who catches rare moths to put herself through high school. In one remarkable scene, Elnora opens her lunch box: “She scarcely could believe her senses. Half the bread compartment was filled with dainty sandwiches of bread and butter sprinkled with the yolk of egg and the remainder with three large slices of the most fragrant spice cake imaginable. The meat dish contained shaved cold ham, of which she knew the quality, the salad was tomatoes and celery, and the cup held preserved pear, clear as amber.”

A Book Buffet from Pinot and Prose:

As a serious cook and former librarian now in children’s publishing, blogger Laura Lutz knows her way around “foodie kid lit.” Laura’s recommendations:

“I can’t say enough about Kitchen Dance by Maurie Manning  – it captures not just the joy of food but the kitchen as well.”

“The Adventurous Chef: Alexis Soyer by Ann Arnold also gives kids some culinary history info – I found out a lot that I didn’t know. Also on culinary history, Bring Me Some Apples and I’ll Make You a Pie (the story of chef Edna Lewis) by Robbin Gourley is particularly well-written.”

“For older readers, I loved Dear Julia by Amy Bronwen Zemser – this is appropriate for tweens even though the characters are older. I also ADORED Madame Pamplemousse and her Incredible Edibles, by Rupert Kingfisher. It’s super short but holds so much magic in such a tiny package.”

“For teenagers, The Sweet Life of Stella Madison by Lara M. Zeises is really wonderful. Great characters, fantastic food descriptions.”

———

Sara at Culinerapy – and countless others – reminded me about Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs by Judi and Ron Barrett.  Sara particularly loves “its pea soup fog and Cream of Wheat snow banks.”  Erin Nichols recalled great food scenes from Beverly Cleary’s Ramona Quimby, Age 8 including “the infamous egg-bashing on head incident, and the yogurt-marinated chicken dinner that she and Beezus make for their parents.” Finally, Beach House’s Jane notes that both Alice in Wonderland and Babar feature plenty of incredible eats.

Your turn! Add your own favorite read for culinary kids (and this now-very-hungry adult).

* Print the whole list? Why not. Click here for a PDF.

What’s better than a freezer full of porky goodness? April delivering it herself, and staying longer than she’d planned, sitting with Cleo’s head in her lap and a mug of hot tea. We talked and talked, and though we’d met once before, it was, as always, nice to fill in the gaps. It’s not unlike focusing a camera, filling in the gaps, and each time you do you get a clearer, stronger picture of this person, the image of a friend.

Several times a year I try to replicate my beloved Chicago deep dish pizza, especially pizza from Lou Malnati’s, my family’s traditional place. 13 years away and I’m finally edging close to pizza truth; it seems the longer I’m out of Chicago, the nearer I get to my pie. When Paige Orloff, writer and Sister Project genius, first visited Simmer, she left a comment, asking about a recipe for deep dish. It surprised me to realize I don’t have one, that I’ve never written it down and I shrugged, thinking I probably never would. Then I got to trading tales with Paige, and by the time she described me as a “kindred, unruly-haired spirit” – not to mention a virtual “dysfunctional family member,” I knew it might be time to try. The next time I make pizza, Paige, you’re with me in the kitchen. In spirit.

And then there is dear Sara Reddy Coyne, from Culinerapy. I haven’t cooked anything for Sara – not yet – but did cook her something up, and now it can be told: The Baker’s Alphabet post was a gift for an expectant friend, and that friend is Sara. When I posted in mid-July she was still not-hungry, nauseous, and not ready to reveal; but ah, the second golden wave. The fog lifts and you start eating again, ravenous, shiny, content. I’m very happy for Sara and her husband Paul, and wish them many shiny, contented days as their new life begins. It’s lovely to know Sara might walk the floors whispering donut rhymes – something that started in very real midnight hours with Josie, and then went to the virtual world, and now in another pair of real hands, might see daylight again.

I don’t know why I’m so astonished that true connections can be made offscreen, but I am. Every blogger I’ve met says the same thing: worried that in person, they will somehow be disappointed, or disappointing.  Since you’ve already glimpsed behind that person’s scenes – a given with childhood pals, but meeting adults, who gets the chance? – expectations may be high, but results even better. It seems that if you put out food, words and trust, new paths may open and in time, circle back.

Why am I doing it again? We recently unearthed a few notes from those days, and I decided to revisit, and finish the doodling I’d started some twelve years ago. This update is a gift for a friend, someone expecting her first, someone who will also tread floors and will, perhaps, find the need to recite baked goods. I was always amazed how the silly muffin-and-pie mantra soothed us both, rocked her to sleep and kept me awake. It also seems to work on small, sweets-loving kids, goofy adults and a few chatty, sugar-looped bakers.

A is sweet on apples, that fall into the pie

B melts into butter, and makes the muffins sigh

Carrots from the garden, deployed to make the cake

D’s are for the donuts when you don’t know what to bake

Elephant ears are flaky (you can say palmiers, too)

F is for the fritter that has nothing else to do

G is for galettes, swirling summer, dripping fruit

H is for hamantaschen, three-cornered cookie loot

I is pie in the icebox – it’s lemon, sweet and cold

Jam befriends the sponge cake and they build a jelly roll

K is always Key lime – should be yellow, never green!

L is for the lattice that keeps red berries seen

Macarons are le favorite, a Paris souvenir

Napoleon’s gone forever, but his treat still lingers there

O is for Oh So Many, a hundred cookies that we ate

P is for the nice plain pears we’ll eat to clean the slate

Q is for Queen Mother’s Cake, from Maida Heatter’s book

R is for the recipe our dog’s jaws sadly took

Scones are a craggy compass, to point us through the day

Tea is their companion (though not the American way)

U loves umeboshi, Japanese fruit that’s pickled tart

V is for vanilla, pure and closest to the heart

W sings out welcome, which is what cakes tend to say

X is for the extra slice you might get on that day

Y is for golden egg yolks, like whisking in the sun

and Zzz’s are heard at daybreak…

…when the bakery work’s begun.

I’ve been following Jane’s blog for some time now.  Back in the pre-Simmer days, when I was writing about building our house, I discovered that other people also wrote about lighting, and stove shopping, and doorknobs. Jane’s blog was filled with design inspiration, great pictures of her garden and the Long Island shore, and featured quick sketches of her family, her travels, her dogs. I dropped in, and stayed.

So, if you read someone’s blog for two years, you know them pretty well, right?

Well, yes. And no.  Each time I’ve met a blogger in person, the effect has been the same: what you see (or in this case, read) is what you get – plus.  That is, you get that voice you read, and more.  You fill in certain gaps: the smile behind the words, seeing how the wheels turn, and putting a real sound to the voice.

And oh, was there sound. Talk and talk and talk. We sat in a restaurant downtown, dipping bread from a breadboard Jane recognized right away. So much fun to sit across from real-life Jane – laughing eyes, UK accent still strong – and build on my Tell Simmer knowledge by listening to her journeys, her family, and the things she loves.

The thing about lunching with a fellow blogger is this: you do a lot of talking. Not so much eating. It’s like making up for lost time, I’d tell Greg, later. He’d ask “what can you possibly talk about for five hours?”  Fair question, but an easy answer. You’re confirming everything you know, and finding out what you don’t know. Back and forth, between bites. It’s simple – whoever’s fork is down…

…is the one listening.

After the world’s most vocal lunch, we walked a few blocks to my house. Oh, she got a tour, and met Greg and Josie, and made much fuss over Cleo – but mostly we stood around the kitchen, talking. I’d baked rugelach that morning, and they were still on a sheet pan. I pulled them off the parchment while we talked, which allowed us to nibble idly at the burnt, melted sugar left on paper.  We sipped Limoncello in little glasses, the last of the stuff I’d made for Josie’s bat mitzvah. Jane brought me a present – gorgeous vintage German cookie molds.

Honestly, why would she think I’d like antique baking stuff?  No idea.

We headed back downtown for coffee, and sat around chatting about Kansas, about New York, about prices and people and why we do we what do, about how we’re all different, and same.   She met a favorite barista, and some of my friends, and some passers-by.  We walked Massachusetts Street, and full of Lawrence booster zeal, I told her more about Lawrence history than she needed to know.

By the time The Guy picked her up and they drove away with rugelach, we’d filled in most of the gaps, lessened the spaces in between.  Thank you, Jane, for the gift of a real voice. I know you’ve got Polly & Sadie, your own lovely black dogs, but just look: after you left, Cleo was despondent.

Come back soon!

——————-

Knitter

Baker

Productivity breakers.

Talk and talk…

…rain, coffee, normal.

————

As we like to say around here, coffee is no longer optional; as in, I don’t think we’re getting special benefits, like perkiness or open eyes – it’s just plain required.  Do you have ten words on coffee?  Spill.

In 1978 just three types of contraband existed for me and my pal Andie Lerner: shoplifted Bonne Bell makeup, those curious magazines in our brothers’ rooms, and Judy Blume’s teen sex novel, Forever. But I was a fearful eleven-year-old who declined the five-finger discount – and despite many examinations of our brothers’ covert reads, Andie and I weren’t quite clear on the attraction. Finally, though we’d heard the title whispered and wanted it desperately, we were not wise to the horizontal goods in Forever. We were not actually wise to anything.

We were clueless, but lucky – a copy was circulating in our math class by day, and pedaling home to bedrooms at night. The smudged paperback moved from desk to desk, and when Mrs. Endicott turned to the board, one girl would slide it to the palms of another, and before Endicott turned back, the deal was done. One fine day during fractions, the palms belonged to Andie.  It was Friday afternoon, and our eyes locked in telegraphed plan: sleepover, toaster-oven snacks and a cover-to-cover inspection – no falling asleep like last time, Andie - of Forever.

Andie lived two houses down from our split-level, in a rambling old Tudor.  Her family snacked on flax bread, and ate lentil soup in hand-thrown pottery crocks.  Wide oak stairs led to a sunny living room crammed with macrame planters and art books and an enormous black Steinway, on which Andie’s dad would balance a glass of red wine and frequently bang out jazz.  My own dad liked to browse tax law, so I found it all thrilling, right up to the day Mr. Lerner met a young woman and left the grand piano – and Mrs. Lerner – behind. Andie’s mom started wearing bangles and gauzy scarves and higher heels, and buying potato chips, and was never home. Mr. Lerner’s weakness had created a premier sleepover destination.

So it was in an empty house, in the sitting room that held just a sofabed and television, that we holed up with Forever.  We meant business: sleeping bags, Twizzlers, root beer, at least a dozen pillows and a few of their Persian cats. The fridge revealed one package of cocktail franks, and I’d brought a can of Wiener Wrap – a kind of processed dough you wrapped and baked around hot dogs.  We could bake them in the toaster oven.  I could sprinkle them with cheddar, and was excited about that, about sprinkling cheddar on Wiener Wraps.

But first, Forever.  We literally tore through it – me pulling, her pulling  – until we finally took turns munching licorice and reading aloud, all about Kath and Michael, and what they were doing. But what were they doing?  An hour later we’d read all the words, had a laugh – ha ha, he called his member Ralph – and while we knew what Judy Blume was saying, sex on a multicolor rug, we didn’t quite know what sex on a multicolor rug, or any rug, was supposed to mean.

We set the book aside and chugged root beer, and watched  TV.  They were showing Planet of the Apes, and we were mesmerized by the chimp makeup and funny lines.  Charlton Heston was yelling. “I bet he never had sex on a multicolor rug!” Andie said.  I pointed to Roddy McDowell’s ape. “Not him either!” I said. We howled and turned out the lights, and everything on TV was hilarious, and Forever fell to the floor.  Eventually we heard a key turn, and a clack-clack down the hallway.  “My mom,” Andie shrieked, “get the book!”  I reached under the bed for the paperback but couldn’t find it, scrabbling.  Mrs. Lerner poked her head in the dark room, then swept in all the way.

“You girls are stillll up,” she said.

“We’re going to sleep, Mom,” said Andie.  Mrs. Lerner smelled like sandalwood, and swayed a little on her heels.  Instead of leaving, she plunked down on the bed.  I breathed in, but inched away.  She leaned over.  “What’s this?” In one floral-sleeved movement, she lifted the book from the carpet.

She took a flashlight from Andie. “What is it?” She shined a spot on the cover. “Oh ho,” she said, “oh yes I do see!”  My lungs collapsed.  I could run home, I thought, I could bang on the door and I could confess to having the book, but at least I’d be out of here.

Now Mrs. Lerner swung to face us.  Andie and I huddled on the sofabed, toward the wall. She turned the flashlight off for a moment, then on again. Then pointed it at us. “So you got this. Okay. Okay. Just tell me one thing, ONE THING.” We held our breaths. “Was it good?”

Was it good. I looked at Andie, who was looking at me. Good? Her mom was still lurching. “Was. It. Good. Was it good for her the first time?”

Andie looked stricken. Neither of us had an inkling, but Mrs. Lerner’s wild-eyed look behind the light demanded an answer.  So I gave her one.

“Oh yeah, it was great!”

She looked suspicious, pressed the book under her palm. “It was great. The first time.”

It seemed to be working, so I went on. “Yeah, fantastic! Everything was perfect!”

Mrs. Lerner clicked the flashlight off, and was silent for two minutes. I thought she might be asleep.

“Then it’s a LIE!” she yelled.  I touched Andie’s arm. “If it was good for her then it is BULL.”  She jumped to her feet, and yanked her beaded shawl. “All men are assholes,” she said, “and don’t you forget it.”  She reached down, grabbed the book, and left.

Andie and I sat frozen for five minutes. Not until we heard shoes on wood, then shoes hit a wall upstairs, and finally the flump of a body in bed, did we finally start laughing, laughing so hard that root beer came out my nose. We did not discuss Kath and Michael, nor virgins or moms nor multicolor rugs.  At two a.m. we went to the kitchen, preheated the toaster oven, and carefully wrapped pink cocktail franks in canned yellow dough. We sat on the brick floor in pajamas and tore open a bag of Oreos, giggling and crumb-faced, waiting for Wiener Wraps.

——————

* no illustration of Wiener Wraps; remember what happened last time?

Emily Dickinson

After more than a year’s worth of Simmer, I’ve concluded that blogging is much like phoning your family. Some days an outburst and others, just “Everything okay? Bye.” For example, I was going to tell you about the pumpkin dog biscuits I baked for Cleo, but…I know. We talked about Cleo yesterday.  Or what Greg, um, had for lunch, or how Jean made me laugh – oh dear, did I mention her the other day?  You get the picture. Purposeless blogging is a lot like aimless talking, a lot like that check-in call with your mom, your friends, your sister.

Whether you love or dread those calls isn’t the point; the point is there’s always someone on the other end you can trust, and with whom you love to be aimless. After moving from Chicago to Kansas, my sister and I would talk – quite literally – all day. At the time, she was fighting cancer and I was nursing a newborn. Like long distance chain-smokers, we’d hang up one call and minutes later, start another. She forgot to say this, I forgot to tell her that. We lost Iris when she was 26. Twelve years later I wake up, still think our dual catty thoughts, and reach for the phone.

I used to tell my father, struggling for calm, that now she was a gift, the best parts left to carry, a gift like a warm stone in your pocket. Eventually he accepted that, and I believed it; but anyone with loss knows that gift comes chained to your core. And my, does it drag around. Still – if there is grace to be saved in losing a sister, it’s the wonder in finding women so attuned to your loss, so keen to your rudderless state that, with shocking kindness and intuition, they offer themselves as your own. We can never replace our sisters; but what comfort, what faith lies in knowing that a sisterhood can, and will, find you.

Though I did nothing to deserve it, sisterly gifts found me:  friends, cousins, aunts, artists, bloggers, writers and cooks have all lightened that weight in coffee shops, on the page, in their kitchens, in my kitchen. Recently the dear, talented geniuses of The Sister Project generously hosted my small – but vital – sister story, and you can read it here.

I haven’t yet shared this on the blog, these bits from the wings, because it was my desire to keep Simmer a relatively joyful, delicious place. But I’m deeply gratified – and surprised – by reactions at The Sister Project, from both those who want to know and those who know too well.  I shouldn’t be, but am, surprised at the welling, gut feelings on loss. I’m not at all surprised to find a sisterhood willing to share.

Or maybe we haven’t discussed this yet because, you know, one needs to save stories for all those daily calls. I mean, posts. Thank you, gentle readers, for being an enormous set of friendly ears, every day.  And now – be you sister, mother, friend, or even a smart sensitive guy, get yourself over to the brilliant Sister Project, and poke around; there is family, there is food, there are stories, and if you look long enough, you’ll find treasure in every corner.

* Oh, I’m sorry, is this blog supposed to be about food?  Okay. We come from a food-obsessed family, so no better way to honor my sister than by exposing her secret snacks of shame (which weren’t so secret): Butternut bread slices fried in butter, spread with jam; tossing late-night spaghetti carbonara; drinking Hershey’s Syrup from the bottle, mixing pretzels into peanut butter and – my favorite – eating Lipton Sweet Iced Tea mix with a spoon.  You know, it’s not half bad.

You’re back from Vegas, she laughed.

How did you know we were there? We hadn’t seen them lately.

Oh, I saw it on the blog.

You read the blog? Grinning, me and the Chianti leaned over.  Jeez, I’m so happy to know you’re reading!

She put a hand on my arm.  I scan it.

My friend Peter called one morning last week, and we caught up, talked about dinners, writing, current goings-on. I confessed I’d been procrastinating, and not any regular putting-off, either, but a lethal strain of not-now that includes mentally burying evidence of things I need to do. I’m afraid I’m stuck, I said.  I think I’m stuck.

“What can I do to help you?” he said.

“What?”

“I said, what can I do.  To – help – you.  Today.”

“That is the nicest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Clearly, you haven’t had much of a day.  What can I do?”

Wow.

“You can give me something.”

“What,” he said, “chocolate chips? Brownies?”

“Give me a deadline.”

“What?”

“Give me a deadline.  I…need to finish things.  Writing things, house things, life things.  My own deadlines don’t work.”

“What do you mean, don’t work?”

“They…expire.  I make new ones.”

Silence, then two sips of coffee.  My old penguin mug, chipped.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got three weeks.”

“Three weeks for what?”

“To finish whatever you started.”

I put down the penguin.

“Deal.  And thank you.”

“For what?”

“The kick. Exactly right.”

Pulling on my gray pea coat, I’m ready to leave the coffee shop but I pause to chat with a friend, a successful writer.

Jen has wavy brown hair that she pushes back once before disappearing into her novels and non-fiction – quiet and unaware, she gives off no bothersome hum. She likes to sit in the front window nursing a latte, peering at stacked manuscripts, glasses down her nose and pen in hand.  I’ve told her many times how I envy her lack of laptop, that I can’t even write longhand anymore, that surely real ink fosters creative prose.  She’s prolific in a way I’m not and appears to use her time wisely, far away in good writing, meaningful work.

Three days ago, she told me her secret:  “Stare out the window for an hour.  Then write for five minutes.”

I knew it!

We’ve worked in the trenches together for so long.  How long? Let’s take a look.

Good times, and not always pretty.  But – look past the scars. This kitchen helper was more than just useful, more than burnt batting – a mitt with real oomph.  Sure, he’d run into a burning oven for you. But he could also be tender…

…bashful even.

And the talent! Always with the clowning in the kitchen.

There was The Manatee…

…the Jumbo Jet…

..and of course, The Diving Orca.  After the Broiler Grab Incident of ’99, that one was never the same.

If I had my druthers, he’d never go to that big Bed Bath in the sky.  But…it’s time.

I salute you too, my friend.  I will warmly remember you forever.

Or at least until trash day.